


Nor Mars his sword

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Institutional Homophobia, M/M, Military Background, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is trying not to burn pasta sauce when he hears his laptop dinging in the living room. He jerks in surprise, and sauce slops over the side of the pan onto the burner. Right away, it sizzles and starts to smoke, but Porthos barely notices. His heart's somewhere up in his throat. Only one person would be Skyping him unannounced at nine at night, and that would be someone nine and a half hours ahead of him with an unpredictable schedule.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Three soldiers over thirteen years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [InseparablesFest 2k14!](http://http://inseparablesfest.tumblr.com/) I'd hoped to have it all mostly done before today, obviously, but two family crises hit back to back and I'll be posting the rest over the course of the next few days. 
> 
> _Not marble, nor the gilded monuments_  
>  _Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;_  
>  _But you shall shine more bright in these contents_  
>  _Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time._  
>  _When wasteful war shall statues overturn,_  
>  _And broils root out the work of masonry,_  
>  _Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn_  
>  _The living record of your memory._  
>  _'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity_  
>  _Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room_  
>  _Even in the eyes of all posterity_  
>  _That wear this world out to the ending doom._  
>  _So, till the judgment that yourself arise,_  
>  _You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes._ \- Shakespeare, Sonnet LV

_December 8, 2014_

Porthos is trying not to burn pasta sauce when he hears his laptop dinging in the living room. He jerks in surprise, and sauce slops over the side of the pan onto the burner. Right away, it sizzles and starts to smoke, but Porthos barely notices. His heart's somewhere up in his throat. Only one person would be Skyping him unannounced at nine at night, and that would be someone nine and a half hours ahead of him with an unpredictable schedule.

Porthos throws the pan into the sink, spins the burner dial off, and bolts for the living room. "Aramis!" he shouts to the studio. "It's Athos!"

There's a loud curse and the clatter of paintbrushes, and a moment later Aramis comes skidding into the hallway. He's got green paint on his temple and yellow in his hair like always, and his eyes are huge.

Porthos scrambles into the living room and vaults over the back of the couch to land in a heap and claw at the coffee table for his laptop. He'd left it open--like he's left it open every night for almost a month--staying signed in, just in case, just because you can never know--

His screen is, as he'd hoped, lit up with that asinine profile shot of Athos, five years younger and in aviators and his fatigues, behind the wheel of a Jeep and smirking. Smirking, because Aramis was telling the most off-color fucking jokes to get him to look over and smile, and Athos refused to do either, keeping his eyes on the road and his face firmly set in the barest smirk. 

Porthos had to set it as Athos' Skype icon, even years after the fact, because it's still, pretty much, the best picture ever taken of him.

Porthos slams his hand on the trackpad just before his laptop gives up and ends the connection. His webcam clicks on--and so does one half of his heart, cold and closed-off after a month without, as Athos' icon becomes Athos' grainy, weary face. 

Aramis skids around the side of the couch and collapses against Porthos, and Athos' tired face becomes Athos' smiling face, pixelated and staticky though it is. "Sorry if I interrupted something." 

"Never," Porthos says. He's got the strongest fucking urge to lean in and kiss his laptop. "How's it going?"

They don't waste time on greetings, not anymore--for all that he's not technically on active duty, as a "consultant," Athos' time is his own even less than it was when he was enlisted. He's scraped together minutes where he can, to let them know everything's fine, but that's barely enough to say hello, so they just skip that and get to the important shit. As it is, he looks fucking exhausted--it's five-thirty in the morning in Afghanistan, and Porthos and Aramis know Athos got up early just so he could see them before going off to do classified and dangerous things.

Porthos fucking hates this.

"Same as usual," Athos says, yawning and scrubbing a hand over his face. "We're going to be driving out today, putting some of the new techniques into practice. It's all on a dummy field," he adds, when Aramis goes rigid beside Porthos. His lips curl into a faint smile, barely visible through the shitty connection, but it's enough to make Porthos' heart skip. "Don't worry about me. It's a good team, they're sharp, even if the brass has no idea."

"We always worry about you," Porthos says, settling back onto the couch and pulling Aramis closer. "Don't fucking tell us not to, it's wasting time."

"Fine," Athos sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Tell me about you. How are things in New York?"

Porthos grins at him. "Kids are doing just fine without you. Don't miss you at all. D'Artagnan's taken over your afternoon shifts, they're all obsessed with him."

"That fucker," Athos says, with that dry enunciation that always sends Porthos into an arousal tailspin. "Tell him not to get used to it."

"Of course he will," Aramis says, curling into Porthos' side. "He'll get used to it, and then you're gonna have to be the one to put that kicked-puppy look on his face when you get back and take them away from him."

"I look forward to it." But Athos is smiling, and Porthos knows he doesn't mean it. "The kids are good, then?" 

Aramis laughs. "Yeah, the kids are good, you big softie."

"Good, because I know they're coming up on winter break, and--"

"Did you really," Porthos interrupts him, "call us at five-thirty from fucking Afghanistan to talk about the youth center? We've got a camp planned. They'll all have a place to be if they need one. It's the same stuff we do every winter."

Athos sighs, still looking concerned. "I know, I just--"

"Need to take care of everyone and everything," Aramis says. His hand moves back and forth over Porthos' knee, the way it would over Athos' wrist, if he were here now. 

Athos notices, clearly, and flashes them a rueful grin. "It's just easier to think about what's there than what's here."

"I know," Porthos says. He tries to keep his voice steady, so Athos doesn't hear or see the way Porthos' heart is twisting in his chest. 

Athos groans and runs a hand over his face, through the mess of his hair again. Porthos is glad they didn't make him cut it when they signed him on for this. He likes how it's grown out (likes how Aramis pushes his hands through it when he's pulling Athos close--only he really shouldn't be thinking about that if he doesn't want to be fucking sad). "It's a mess here," he says, his voice crackling in and out as the connection buffers. "But we should be done soon, they said they won't keep me past Christmas."

"Good," Aramis says fiercely. "Come the fuck home."

Athos smiles at him. "I want to," he says. His voice is unbearably gentle, and they can all only bear that for just a moment before Athos has to clear his throat and change the subject. "So--how's the show going, then, Aramis?"

Porthos feels the harsh line of Aramis' spine soften, and Aramis curls even closer into Porthos' side. "We've got the full lineup," he says, his voice brightening. "And a lot of places are interested in sponsoring--you know everyone likes to at least pretend they give a fuck about vets. So a veteran's art gallery show, Christmas Eve, it's ticking a lot of feel-good buttons."

"I did mean _your_ paintings," Athos drawls, "but I'm glad to hear that."

Aramis rolls his eyes. Porthos can't see his face, but he can hear it in his voice. "Mine are fine. You'll see them."

"Are you still fighting with the Navy coordinator?"

 _"No,"_ Aramis huffs, like a petulant child, and Porthos laughs and kisses his hair. "Johnston's a fucking prick, acting like Army vets have no poetry in our souls, but yes, I have stopped disdaining him at every meeting. We can play nicely now."

Athos is beaming at him, and Porthos wants to lean out and screencapture it, grainy as it is. "You know I agree on principle," Athos says, twisting his West Point ring on his finger. "Just, in practice, we do have to be nice."

"In practice," Aramis sneers, kicking his feet out and crossing them at the ankles. "In fucking practice Porthos could twist him into a pretzel, which is fucking poetic enough for my taste."

Athos actually laughs, and Porthos and Aramis beam at him. Even on a shitty webcam from thousands of miles away, his laugh is the most gorgeous fucking sound. 

"I miss you," Aramis says then, like he just can't help himself. 

Athos' face falls slightly, and Porthos feels Aramis tense a little--kicking himself, probably. Porthos strokes a soothing hand over his shoulder and smiles at the screen. "We both do."

Athos nods, his smile still there, but a different kind of thing--softer, sadder. "I wish I were there," he says. It's all that he has to say.

Then there's a loud knock on Athos' side of the connection, and he starts, looking up. "Yes?" 

The response is garbled, but the tone is clear, and that's it, then. Porthos' chest twists, he feels Aramis go rigid in his arms, and he always fucking hates this part. Athos looks back at them, his smile twitching half-heartedly up at one side. "Duty calls."

"Yeah." Porthos is memorizing his face, the way he always does when one of these calls end. Aramis' hand has closed tightly around Porthos' leg.

Athos notices, and his hand comes up to touch the screen before he can stop himself. The moment when he realizes is always literally painful to watch, as is the moment when he grits his teeth and draws his hand back. "I'll be in touch when I can be."

"We know," Porthos says, because Aramis never has much to say except the essential, in these moments. "Be safe."

"We love you," Aramis says then, voice thick with emotion.

Athos smiles, and the connection stays blissfully clear for a moment so they can see it. "I love you, too," he says.

And then he's gone, and Aramis turns his face into Porthos' chest.

"I hate this," Porthos says into the quiet of the apartment. "I fucking hate this."

"You know I do, too," Aramis murmurs, his voice muffled against Porthos' chest. 

They sit in silence for a long few minutes, just holding each other. At last, Aramis sniffs and lifts his head, and he lets Porthos wipe his tears, turning his face into the broad sweeps of Porthos' thumbs. 

Aramis smiles at him--then frowns and looks over his shoulder, sniffing again. "Did you burn dinner?"

"Probably."

"Okay. Just checking."

It's not completely unsalvageable, though, and they manage to eat semi-decent pasta in mostly-silence. It's not uncomfortable silence, though--they're both worrying about Athos, and they don't have to talk to know each other's exact fears. They were all in Afghanistan together. They know what's there; they know what to be afraid of.

Only Porthos wasn't ever as afraid for himself as he is for Athos right now--even in the hottest parts of the war, even when they were getting blown up and shot at, he doesn't remember feeling this daily fucking _worry._ That part's new.

 _It's completely irrational,_ he tells himself as he and Aramis wash up for bed. _For fuck's sake, he's not in an active combat zone anymore. You're worrying for nothing._

He repeats it over and over to himself as he and Aramis crawl into bed, exhausted by their own fears. He says it again and again as he falls asleep, as he feels Aramis' tension slowly drain away until he's sleeping against Porthos' chest. _You're worrying for nothing._

He's almost convinced himself of it until the next evening, when Treville shows up on their doorstep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd been told--they'd been fucking _told_ that all the Taliban fighters had fled to Tora Bora, only clearly they haven't because Porthos is pinned down against the shell of one of the cars with three of his squad mates and he doesn't know where Aramis and the other fucking five are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for a firefight/battle scene--canon-typical levels of violence, in that there's some blood and bodies and a few people get shot. You might notice I've changed Aramis' last name--I've gone with the same headcanon I use for Aramis' heritage in U Pro O: since we all sort of go with him as Spanish in the series, in an American-based modern AU, I think the closest analogue is Mexican-American, hence Herrera instead of d'Herblay. I wish I could have found a good reason to change Athos', too, since de la Fere is so annoying to type every time. I did give myself the leeway to drop the accent mark, because I'm lazy. sorryyy.

_November who-the-fuck-knows, 2001_   
_near Tora Bora, Afghanistan_

Smoke pours out of three upended Jeeps, sand and bullets fly thick and fast, and Porthos doesn't know how this happened. Their half of the convoy was fine, moving smoothly along half an hour ahead of the second part, and then the lead truck exploded and now everything is not fucking fine at all. They'd been told--they'd been fucking _told_ that all the Taliban fighters had fled to Tora Bora, only clearly they haven't because Porthos is pinned down against the shell of one of the cars with three of his squad mates and he doesn't know where Aramis and the other fucking five are. 

"Where the fuck are they coming from?" he hears Jefferson yell behind him, and Porthos doesn't know, he just knows that they can't fucking get up because Meyers did that and now Meyers is biting down on his rifle strap not to scream while Feliz wraps a bandage around the bullet wound in his shoulder. Porthos is decently sure that the sharp, insistent pain in his forearm is shrapnel, but he doesn't really have time to worry about that right now. 

"Duvallon!" 

Porthos whips his head around, and in a thinning in the smoke sees a ridge of rocks below the side of the road, and the edges of familiar shapes beckoning to him. Their second lieutenant has something in his hand, de la Fere's smoke-streaked face looking right at Porthos with an order in his eyes, and Porthos' training kicks in before his rational thought does. 

"Down!" he barks to his squad mates, and they all duck as de la Fere sends the grenade in a perfect arc over their heads. The explosion erupts and they run, the gunfire momentarily halted, and then they're down in the ridge with the rest of the platoon. 

Only not the rest of the platoon. Aramis and the rest of the squad aren't here. 

"Shit," Porthos says, and starts to scramble back up the ridge. But de la Fere is there and literally yanks him back, grabbing Porthos by the collar with a strength he's never seen from the man before, and he drags Porthos down behind the ridge again. 

"Stay down," the lieutenant barks. "We've got to wait for the second half of the convoy--" 

"Half my squad's still up there, sir!" Porthos argues. "And--" _And Aramis,_ he almost says, stopping himself at the last second, because they'd fucking talked about this, they couldn't make it seem like they were anything more than good friends. Especially not in front of _him._

All the same, he sees the moment when de la Fere realizes. The lieutenant looks wildly around, does a quick headcount, and swears viciously.

Porthos has never been sure what to make of de la Fere--he graduated from West Point two years ago, Porthos knows, which means he's probably just barely older than Porthos' own twenty-three (if at all), and Porthos resented having to take his orders, at first. Another green rich boy who skipped the real work and went straight to the officers' tables--obviously, now, he's had time to eat those words. Because de la Fere is _good,_ sharp and discerning, with excellent judgment--

And anyway, Porthos already owes him his career.

"Shit," de la Fere snaps, like he's making up his mind, and grabs for his rifle. "Duvallon, Felix, Gustave and Patterson, with me--the rest of you, stay here, stay down, and for fuck's sake cover us. Do not move unless you're going to get surrounded. Wait for the second convoy."

He gives the orders in a crisp, smooth voice, completely assured and in control, and Porthos just lets it wash over him. He's on his feet and moving with de la Fere before he really thinks about what he's doing--he's never had any choice but to trust de la Fere, but it's moments like this that really do make it easy. 

They cling to the side of the ridge as they move, ducking frequently to avoid the hail of bullets, and Porthos is trying, _trying_ not to think of them as fish in a barrel. But the Taliban fighters could be moving, getting ready to surround them, and what the fuck will they do then?

Where the _hell_ is Aramis?

"Where was the rest of your squad?" de la Fere yells to him over the chatter of machine-gun fire. 

Porthos dares to twist his head and glance up at the smoking wreckage on the road. He does not get shot, but it's a near fucking thing, and drops hastily back down. "They were with the third Jeep, sir." The third Jeep flipped when the second one exploded, and Porthos refuses to believe that they're all dead. That Aramis is dead. Not in a skirmish as tiny and as pointless as this.

De la Fere nods, and they manage to get a little further down the ridge, closer to the sideways shell of the third Jeep. It's on the other side of the road, too far for them to get at without exposing themselves, and Porthos doesn't know what the fuck they're going to do--if Aramis and the others are even _there._

He cranes his neck to see over the ridge, de la Fere at his side, trying to stay low so he doesn't get shot but needing to get up higher to see--

Underneath the wreckage of the Jeep, there's blood. Bodies and blood.

_No. Oh no._

_"Aramis!"_ he yells, as loud as he can, not fucking _caring_ what de la Fere and the others think--

For just a second--a moment, so short he could be imagining it--a pale face with huge dark eyes appears in the smoking shadows underneath the Jeep. Then a hail of bullets roars out again, and Aramis' face disappears. 

Porthos is ready to fling himself over the ridge again, but de la Fere holds him and jerks him firmly down. Porthos rounds on him, his temper flaring and his heart breaking, because maybe _he_ didn't see, but Porthos--

De la Fere's bright blue eyes are about six inches from Porthos' own, and those eyes are much, much older than twenty-three. "I saw him, too," de la Fere says. "But unless you have any more grenades, I don't know how to get to him."

There's another explosion, and everyone ducks except Porthos and de la Fere. They're still staring at each other--and then when the boom hits, they both turn as one to look and make sure the Jeep--and Aramis--are still there. 

They are, but Porthos doesn't know how long it's going to last. Already, the enemy fighters are realizing that this little group of soldiers wants that Jeep, and bullets are starting to rain down on what's left of the road around it. 

Some of the wounded, frightened animal rage Porthos is feeling escapes him in a growl, and de la Fere's hand tightens on his shoulder. 

Porthos' eyes flick sideways, barely taking his gaze from the Jeep, but then he sees de la Fere is looking at him. Looking sidelong at Porthos' face with that tight, icy, unreadable look that shows up in every one of Porthos' nightmares.

Three weeks ago, de la Fere had caught him and Aramis in a quiet, fierce embrace behind the mess hall of their base camp. 

It was a stupid risk in the first place. They never should have given in to the temptation--they'd thought it would be all right, that no one else would go back there in the dirt and garbage and mess. It was one of the most careless mistakes of Porthos' life--but he couldn't regret it. 

It had started innocent, Porthos swears to himself. They both needed it, just that brief moment of _holding_ each other--because in all the years since that first day of boot camp, there had never been enough moments just to fucking hold each other--and then Aramis had lifted his face, his eyes dark and wild and his jaw set, and Porthos couldn't help himself. And then they'd fallen into it, kissing wildly, fiercely, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and fear and adrenaline-- 

And then the sharp sound of a drawn breath cut into it, and Porthos' heart had turned to ice. 

He'd staggered back from Aramis, who caught himself on the concrete wall behind him. They held each other's horrified gazes for half a second, before they looked up to see Lieutenant de la Fere at the end of the alley. 

It was pitch black behind the mess hall, but one light from the yard fell on de la Fere's face--startled, for a moment, before morphing into that ice-sharp look of _something_ that Porthos couldn't place. 

For a terrifying second, Porthos had a court-martial and dishonorable discharge flash before his eyes. 

Then de la Fere said, "Be more careful," and walked away. 

That was all.

They haven't spoken of it since--the two of them and de la Fere--and Porthos doesn't know if they ever will. Aramis, Porthos knows, thinks it means they have an ally--after all, de la Fere hadn't turned them in. He's barely their own age, and he'd looked so _sad,_ Aramis had thought, when Porthos dared to ask him about it. 

Porthos doesn't know. He grew up too rough to trust anyone that much--anyone but Aramis. But now de la Fere is looking at him that exact same way, like he knows what this is, and he's _sorry._

Porthos can place that icy look now, in the sunlight and smoke and closer than he's ever been to de la Fere before. Cold fear, and a frozen regret so deep that Porthos doesn't know how the man doesn't drown in it.

"We cover the Jeep until the rest of the convoy gets here," de la Fere says-- _orders._ His eyes-- _Jesus, they are so fucking blue_ \--are locked on Porthos', like he's willing Porthos to hold it together. 

And Porthos realizes Aramis was right, then--de la Fere _does_ know. He knows and he's going to help.

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, and unslings his rifle.

It feels like hours. It feels like fucking hours of crouching then twisting and shooting then ducking again, laying down fire to keep the enemy from shooting up the Jeep--he's shoulder-to-shoulder with de la Fere the whole time, and he's pretty sure that's the only thing that keeps him sane. 

If he thinks too much about Aramis, pinned beneath a Jeep full of bodies, gunfire and explosions all around and probably injured, he'll either fling himself over the ridge and get himself shot or just sink down and start to fucking cry. So it's good that de la Fere is beside him and Porthos can feed off that calm, inhumanly focused aura the man carries around him like a bubble. 

It gets him through until the roar of engines shakes the ground, and out of fucking nowhere a rocket blows up the other side of the road.

The gunfire stops. That's all the lull that Porthos and de la Fere need to throw themselves over the ridge.

"Cover them, cover the others, we have this," de la Fere roars over his shoulder at the other rangers, and as the two of them peel off, Porthos and de la Fere race to the Jeep.

Porthos drops to his belly beside the shell of the Jeep, trying not to think about how he's climbing over the bodies of his dead brothers to get there. "Aramis! _Aramis!"_ There's no answer and Porthos reaches under, as far as he can, searching for warm flesh instead of still, dead bodies. 

He connects with a hand--hot, damp, _alive_ \--that grips his own tight enough to crack his bones. 

"I've got him," he yells to de la Fere over the machine roar of the rest of the convoy joining the fighting--no one is shooting at them anymore, but they're both still careful to keep the Jeep between them and where the shots were coming from. 

"Can you pull him out?" de la Fere calls--he still has his rifle up, he's covering Porthos. Porthos gets his head down, nearly scraping his ear on the ground to see, and--no--okay, yes, _there's_ Aramis' face, his neck craned to see Porthos as he holds his hand. His face is streaked with blood and tear tracks cutting through the grime of dirt and smoke, and there are bodies on either side of him. From the awful angle, they've been dead, Porthos is sure, since the Jeep flipped half an hour ago.

_Jesus, Aramis._

"Hey, brother," Porthos says, squeezing Aramis' hand as relief floods up and chokes him. "We're gonna get you out, can you move?" 

Aramis shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say more, but can't. His breath is coming hard and fast, and Porthos knows panic when he sees it. After a minute, he grinds out "Leg's pinned," and he looks _awful,_ lost and afraid and in more pain than Porthos can stand to see. "Seat."

"Okay," Porthos says, his mind racing. "Okay, you're gonna be okay, Aramis, we're gonna get this up off you--"

He starts to pull back, but Aramis' hand closes hard around his, and his eyes go huge as he shakes his head as much as he can. "Porthos," he says, like it's the only word he knows, and his face screams _don't leave me down here again,_ even if his voice can't. Porthos has never wanted to swear and feel his heart break in the same moment.

"I'm not gonna leave you," he says, his pulse pounding in his throat. "I'm not, Aramis, I promise."

"What's wrong?" de la Fere asks then, and Porthos can hear the stress in his voice. "Is he hurt?"

Porthos twists as much as he can to see de la Fere's face, without letting Aramis lose sight of his, or let go of his hand. "His leg's pinned, but I can't--I can't just leave him down here while we--"

De la Fere nods sharply, looks around, then stows his gun and drops to the ground beside Porthos. Porthos barely has a chance to be surprised before de la Fere squirms in beside him and gets his hand on top of Porthos' and Aramis' joined ones. 

Some of the terror in Aramis' face eases, his eyes blinking rapidly, and his mouth works for a moment before he gets out, "Lieutanant."

"We've got you," de la Fere says, that calm-calm voice on full blast.

Aramis shudders out a sob, and he twists his hand so de la Fere is holding his wrist.

De la Fere makes a sound like he's in pain, and Porthos looks sharply at him. De la Fere barely flicks a glance at him, though; his eyes stay locked on Aramis. "I've got this," de la Fere says through gritted teeth. "Hurry up and get the fucking Jeep off him."

Porthos gives Aramis' hand one last squeeze and twists away. 

As he does, the sound of fighting dims curiously in his ears, and all Porthos can hear is Aramis' terrified breathing and de la Fere's low, steady voice. Like his ears have just focused in on the sounds of these two people--people he's tied himself to, in ways he's not sure he fully realizes yet.

"Just breathe, Aramis," de la Fere's saying, as Porthos gets to his feet and ducks around the Jeep, trying to see where it's pinning Aramis. "We've got you. We're not going to leave you, we're going to get you out."

The front end of the Jeep has collapsed onto the driver's seat, Porthos realizes, putting almost the whole weight of the vehicle on it. _Seat,_ Aramis had said, and if Porthos can get it up just enough-- "I think I've got it," he yells around to de la Fere. "You'll have to pull him out, I can't get it up all the way--"

"Get ready," de la Fere orders, his voice sharp as usual, but it goes instantly low again when he speaks to Aramis. "Aramis, the minute the pressure eases up, I need you to crawl to me, can you do that?"

Porthos waits tensely for Aramis' answer--nothing comes, of course it doesn't, he can barely speak, but then de la Fere barks "Do it!" and Porthos moves.

He drops to his haunches and gets his hands under it--puts all the strength of his legs into lifting, into getting Aramis free-- _please, please, let me get him out, I need him, please_ \--

And then de la Fere yells "Got him, drop it!" and Porthos lets go.

He's so shaky with relief and adrenaline that he ends up having to half-crawl himself, getting back around the side of the Jeep to find de la Fere half-cradling Aramis in his arms. They're both on their knees, Aramis curled completely into de la Fere's arms, and Aramis' fatigues are half-soaked in blood from head to toe. 

De la Fere keeps him close, holding Aramis upright with his whole body. On the other side of the Jeep, the gunfire and explosions have stopped: the rest of the convoy's driven off the attackers and the rest of the platoon's coming out of the ditch. 

The NCOs and officers are regrouping everyone. De la Fere should be getting up and moving with them, getting things in order--but he's holding Aramis instead, talking quietly to him as Aramis clings to him. He has an eye on Porthos as well, Porthos knows, and de la Fere's steadying, careful gaze is comforting. 

As the last of his adrenaline fades, Porthos sits back in a heap against the crumpled car door. For the first time since this war started--for just a second--Porthos feels safe.

They're safe with de la Fere.

"De la Fere!"

It's the first lieutenant, and de la Fere's back straightens. He looks quickly to Porthos, and Porthos pushes himself forward to take Aramis so de la Fere can stand. 

The minute Porthos touches Aramis, Aramis turns and buries his face in Porthos' neck. He's pressing his cheek, Porthos realizes, against Porthos' throat--where his pulse is pounding in his neck. He'd been clinging to de la Fere in the same place.

Of course he needs to hear their hearts beating. He's been pinned, under fire, with four dead bodies for half an hour.

"I'm here, brother," Porthos whispers. "I'm alive. You are, too. We're both here."

Aramis' breath slowly, slowly steadies, as their heartbeats start to sync.

De la Fere salutes the first lieutenant, who surveys the ruined Jeep and bodies with this look of resigned horror that Porthos is getting far too used to seeing on his superior officers' faces. Porthos tunes out as de la Fere gives his report, focusing instead on rubbing Aramis' shoulders as Aramis sits heavily against Porthos' body, staring at the ground between them. 

"...and Herrera," the first lieutenant says eventually, and Porthos tunes back in. "Can he be moved?"

"I don't know, sir," de la Fere says, very evenly. Something is very off in de la Fere's voice, and Porthos tenses instantly. "Sir, I really think--"

"That is an order, de la Fere," the first lieutenant snaps, and de la Fere's body goes ramrod-straight. 

He turns on his heel and kneels back beside Porthos, and when he speaks, it is very quietly and very quickly. "They're taking all casualties to a field hospital. We need to get him on the truck."

Porthos stares up at him. "Field hospital?" They're close enough to go back to the base--Aramis _needs_ the hospital at the base, why the fuck--?

De la Fere gives the most minute shake of his head-- _not here, not now_ \--and he takes Aramis' face in his hands and tilts it up.

Aramis' dark eyes roll, unfocused for a moment, before snapping up to de la Fere's face with an almost frightening intensity.

De la Fere responds in kind, his eyes locked on Aramis', and Porthos shifts his body to hide their conversation from the watching first lieutenant. "Herrera," de la Fere says, low and quiet. "Aramis, listen to me. The corporal's taking a truck of casualties to a field hospital, and you need to go with them."

"No," Aramis says. "I'm not leaving." Porthos' heart soars and plummets in a sickening rollercoaster dive--he's _talking,_ but he's going to be fucking difficult, as always.

"That's an order, Herrera," de la Fere says, in a tone just half a shade off from his usual crispness. "Something is very wrong here, and I will take it as a personal favor if you go with the corporal and let them take care of your leg while Porthos and I figure it out."

"I want--want to stay with you," Aramis says, like he's having to force every word. "You two." 

"You can't right now, brother, I'm sorry," Porthos says, shifting Aramis' weight against him in preparation to carry him--and allowing him to steal a moment's embrace, taking half a second to crush Aramis to his chest. "I'm so fucking sorry, but you're not gonna be alone."

A desperate sound breaks free of Aramis' chest. "Lieutenant," Aramis says through gritted teeth, and de la Fere holds his face a moment more before letting it drop, moving his hands to Aramis' shoulders, to brace him.

"You can do this, Herrera," de la Fere says, in that commanding, steadying voice that Porthos has fallen hard for. "You're a trained medic, they may need your help."

It's exactly the right thing to say. Aramis' eyes focus, his jaw tightens, and Porthos feels him draw himself up.

"They need you," de la Fere goes on. "And your squad mates need that famous Herrera humor, yes?"

One corner of Aramis' mouth barely, just barely twitches up.

De la Fere smiles ever so faintly in return. "There's the smile we're all going to need," he says, low like praise, so low Porthos is sure no one but he or Aramis hear.

Aramis' face sobers, and his eyes track over de la Fere's face for a moment. He blinks once, twice, then nods. 

De la Fere nods in return, then glances to Porthos. In the--what is it, hour, now?--that it's been, Porthos has become very adept in speaking de la Fere, and he can tell the lieutenant is very, very worried beneath the calm facade he's using for Aramis. But right now, his face is just saying, _help me,_ and Porthos can do that.

Together, very carefully, they carry Aramis down the road to the truck for the wounded. There's barely enough room for Aramis to sit, but they get him on there, set him next to Meyers and let the two of them hold each other up.

It's too crowded for Porthos to do anything but squeeze his hand and spend half a second staring into Aramis' bottomless black eyes. "Get better, brother," he says, a world of emotions swirling in his chest, and Aramis nods jerkily, his eyes locked on Porthos'. 

Porthos steps back, letting the rest of the platoon flow around him, and steps back beside de la Fere as the truck coughs its way into life.

Aramis doesn't break his gaze until the truck is out of sight.

Porthos holds his breath, lets it out slowly, and tilts his head toward de la Fere. "Sir," he asks quietly, still looking at where the truck disappeared, "what did you mean, something's wrong?"

De la Fere is silent a long moment before answering. "The first lieutenant is not telling me something," he says, his voice barely audible. "I lost five men today, and may lose a sixth. I am going to find out what."

Porthos looks sidelong at de la Fere, and finds the man staring after where the truck vanished from sight, too. 

"Yes, sir," he says, and looks back at the road. 

It's barely been an hour, but Porthos is sure--from now on, he goes wherever de la Fere goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't go into this chapter planning on it being this 'verse's equivalent of Savoy, but, oops. As always, you can find me [on tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the half second that it takes his stomach to drop into his boots, Porthos reflects on that special flavor of dread that military families feel, when the doorbell rings and it isn't supposed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna say "in which shit gets kinda real" but that was last chapter, wasn't it?

_December 9, 2014_

Porthos gets home from after-school daycare around six-thirty; it's been dark for hours and tiny snow flecks dot the shoulders of his coat. He's had Athos on his mind all day, but nothing can quite lift his mood like a game of Horse with his fifth-graders, and Aramis had the day off so he'll be waiting at home-- Porthos isn't sure if he's happier about his day at work, or the anticipation of Aramis. Either way, he's smiling when he kicks the apartment door shut behind him and pops his headphones out of his ears. 

He's instantly assaulted by Trent Reznor howling away down the hall, and Porthos grins. He makes his way towards it, shedding coat and scarf as he goes because the heat is cranked up and it's nearly tropical in here, and when he gets there, he finds one of his favorite sights in the whole world.

Aramis stands in the middle of the studio in a paint-splattered pair of boxer-briefs and nothing else, his bare chest and stomach and thighs streaked with acrylics as he bobs idly to the screeching grunge. He's holding a brush in his teeth as he squirts paint into his mixing tray, frowning in concentration and holding the tray up to the light. Porthos can't see the canvas from the doorway, it's not facing him, but Aramis is smeared with primary colors instead of blacks and purples, so it seems to be a good day.

He leans in the doorway and raps his knuckles on the frame. Aramis glances up, and his face relaxes instantly into a smile. He waggles his tongue at Porthos around the brush in lieu of a greeting, and Porthos snorts and shakes his head. 

Aramis twists his head and spits the brush out, ignoring where it falls in favor of carefully setting down his mixing tray and switching off the music. "Hello, gorgeous," he says, picking his way across the detritus of his studio until he can fling himself into Porthos' arms. "I missed you today."

"Hey," Porthos laughs, holding him close. "I missed you, too." He's used to having paint all over himself from Aramis' impulsive cuddling--God, but he's still not used to _that,_ six years after moving in together; after not having it for so long, he doesn't think he ever will be--but at least it all seems mostly dry this time.

Aramis huffs a delighted breath, burrowing his nose into the join of Porthos' neck and shoulder, and oh, yep, that's a nibble. "Jesus," Porthos swears softly, letting the doorjamb take his weight as Aramis settles against him. "You're frisky tonight."

"I've been listening to 'Closer' on repeat for thirty minutes," Aramis growls into his neck. "Also I've been painting you naked. Kind of. In abstract. Care to give me a real-life model?"

Porthos grins and pushes Aramis gently back, just enough so he could get his shirt over his head--he will do anything, _anything_ for Aramis when he's in a mood like this, even (especially?) get absolutely filthy and bruise his knees having sex on the studio floor--

And then the door buzzer slices through the moment like red-hot wire.

In the half second that it takes his stomach to drop into his boots, Porthos reflects on that special flavor of dread that military families feel, when the doorbell rings and it isn't supposed to.

He and Aramis share a look, and move into the hallway together to the control panel. Porthos hits the microphone, his arm still curled protectively around Aramis' shoulders. "Yes?"

"Hello, Porthos," a gruff, deep voice calls. "It's Treville."

Aramis turns his face into Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos takes a deep breath. "Come on up."

"Oh, fuck," Aramis says against Porthos' skin, as the mic cuts and Porthos buzzes Treville in. "Fuck, fuck, Porthos." He sounds sick.

"I know." Porthos swallows hard, rubbing his shoulder. "I know. You should maybe get dressed."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Aramis mutters, pushing himself off Porthos and going down the hall to their bedroom.

Porthos goes into the living room, and sits down in the chair closest to the front door. He knows he has a full thirty seconds of sitting very still and breathing very calmly--preparing himself--before Treville will make it across the foyer, up the stairs, and down their hall. 

Treville is their unofficial father figure. Before that, he was the captain of their Army reserve unit here in New York. He'd sponsored Athos' application to West Point; he's known Athos since he was fifteen. If he's a father figure to Aramis and Porthos--always understanding, always fair, and always turning a blind eye to their romance--he is, in every way but biologically, Athos' father.

He was the one who'd called Athos to come down to Fort Hamilton, the day they'd asked Athos to volunteer for the training position. Treville had supported him; he'd been the one to ask Athos to do it, himself.

Porthos puts his head between his knees and orders himself not to throw up. 

Treville's crisp knock lands on the door, and Aramis' sounds stop in the bedroom.

Porthos gets up on legs that resolutely do not shake, and opens the door for him. "Sir." He doesn't look at Treville's face yet, not as he stands aside to let him in and close the door behind him. He's fucking terrified of what he'll see there. They all know this isn't a fucking social call--something's wrong.

He closes the door and locks it, and finally looks up at Treville.

The lines in Treville's face seem deeper than ever, and his eyes are dull. It's the absolute worst look Porthos has ever seen on him, and every inch of Porthos' skin goes cold.

Well. That was pretty much exactly what he was afraid of.

Porthos reaches behind him for the chair to steady himself as the world fades out at the edges. "John, tell me he's not dead," he says, barely hearing his own voice. "Please, that's all I need you to tell me right now."

Treville lets out a heavy breath. "The dummy field his team was training on was bombed and raided by insurgents," he says, as gently as Porthos has ever heard him say anything. "They're missing in action."

It's like Porthos' brain can only process Treville's words in pieces, but his body knows before his mind does.

He's cold all over. _Bombed?_

He's going to throw up. _Raided._

_Missing in action._

Oh, no. Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck, fuck, _Athos._

A low sound cuts into Porthos' terror, and Porthos tears his eyes away from Treville to see Aramis in the hallway, half-slumped against the wall, like he's had to catch himself. He's staring at Treville, at Porthos. 

"No," Aramis says harshly. "No, because you said it wasn't active combat, you said it wasn't dangerous, you said he'd be _safe."_

"I know." Treville sounds exhausted.

"You _promised him!"_ Aramis hurls, swaying dangerously on his feet. "You promised him he'd come home, he _told us,_ they fucking promised he'd be back, what the fuck do you mean _he's missing?"_

"They told me this afternoon," Treville says. He looks it; he looks like he's spent hours trying to find out what happened, trying to find out if it's too soon to mourn but too late to change anything. "I'm sorry, Aramis."

Porthos moves automatically as Aramis throws himself forward. He catches him and holds him up, pulling him back from Treville, because there's a very real chance Aramis will hurt him. Normally Aramis adores Treville--has gushed to Porthos and Athos for hours about how fucking inspiring the man is, how he's done more for vets in this city than any Army officer before him, how Aramis would be grateful to grow old and be half as strong as he is. 

But Aramis balances constantly on a knife's edge between even-keeled and a spiraling whirlwind of emotion, and nothing knocks him off that edge into stormy rage faster than something threatening Athos or Porthos, or what the three of them have.

This is worse than anything that's ever happened.

"I don't give a _fuck_ if you're sorry," Aramis spits in Porthos' arms. "he's not _your_ missing piece, you don't have to fucking sleep without him--you don't _get_ to be sorry!"

Treville endures Aramis' abuse with a look of resignation that breaks Porthos' heart. "Athos was the best person for the job," Treville says quietly. 

"Because he couldn't fucking let you do it to someone else," Aramis says, every word perfectly chosen to cut, every word echoing Porthos' own darkest thoughts. "He's too fucking good for that. He couldn't let people die for lack of training, and you _fucking_ knew that, so you played on his fucking conscience _and now he's fucking gone!"_

Treville just sighs and looks away, and that's the worst part of it--that he knows, that there's nothing Aramis is saying that he hasn't told himself already.

Porthos knows he'll be angry later, but right now, Aramis is angry enough for the both of them, and Porthos doesn't feel anything. He's just numb.

"You two will be the first to know as soon as we have anything," Treville says, staring resolutely at the kitchen cabinets. 

"Yes, we will be," Aramis snarls. "Now leave us the hell alone, unless you have any more of the worst news of our lives to deliver."

He's shaking all over, and Porthos knows his anger is the only thing that's holding him up. So he doesn't tell Aramis that he's being too harsh, that Treville is clearly worried sick and guilt-ridden already, that the three of them need to lean on each other right now while they _pray_ that Athos will turn up alive and well. There'll be time for that later. For now, Treville just nods to them both, puts his gloves back on, and leaves.

The minute the door clicks shut behind him, Aramis' legs give out. Porthos forces his body to get them both to the couch before he lets himself collapse, too. He curls his body around Aramis', pulls Aramis close to his chest, and buries his face in Aramis' paint-streaked hair as they both start to shake.

"Oh, fuck," Aramis whispers against his chest. "Porthos."

"He'll be fine," Porthos says, holding Aramis tighter than he ever has before. "Aramis, he'll be fine, he has to be."

"Oh, God, oh, fucking, _fucking_ God, this can't be happening, this can't happen, not Athos--" 

"We don't know anything," Porthos reminds him, his throat closing on the words even as he says it. "We don't--we don't know, not yet, Aramis, we don't."

He can't stop thinking about that Skype call with Athos, the last one--no, not the _last_ one, just--just the most recent one, _fuck_ , he cannot start thinking about every fucking thing as _the last one_. Athos had seemed so tired, he'd just talked about coming home. He'd just wanted to be home with them, he wasn't--if he was thinking about them, he wouldn't have been thinking about the job... No, Athos was the best soldier Porthos had ever served with. He was always present, always in the moment. He wouldn't have been distracted.

Still.

They shouldn't have let him go. They should have convinced him that there could be someone else, that he didn't have to do it. They shouldn't have let him make himself a martyr for the fucking Army.

But the three of them have spent more than a decade making themselves martyrs for the fucking Army, putting the greater fucking good first.

It's fucking ironic as hell, really--they're finally able to be together, and now there's nothing they can do to get him back.

"I can't stop imagining him," Aramis whispers, "pinned down like I was." 

Porthos only remembers to breathe because his chest starts burning. "Aramis?"

"Pinned under the Jeep." Aramis' fingers clench and unclench in Porthos' shirt. "Bodies around him, fire on both sides, and he can't go anywhere, he's just stuck like I was. Only we aren't there to rescue him."

Porthos can see it before he tells himself not to think about it--that first awful flash of Aramis' face under the Jeep is burned in his memory forever. Only now, of course, it's Athos' face, Athos' eyes staring out at him, begging Porthos for help.

And Porthos wasn't there.

Porthos pulls his arms tighter around Aramis, rocking him back and forth. "He's the bravest, smartest, best soldier we know," he says softly, trying to make himself believe it as much as Aramis. "Athos will make it through this." 

Porthos knows he's going to have to leave this couch eventually. He's gonna have to get Aramis up and feed them both. He'll call Constance, and she'll come over with d'Artagnan and fill the apartment with their good humor and unfailing kindness, and he and Aramis will come slowly back to life enough to get through the next day, and the one after that, and every one where they don't hear anything.

Right now, though, he needs to make them both believe that the world isn't ending.

That's gonna take a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years ago, a kitchen interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick one to celebrate season two being back! AHAHAHA I'm still not emotionally prepared.

_December 18, 2008_

With a sweep of his arm, Porthos shoves the empty boxes and move-in junk off the kitchen island. He turns, barely in time to catch Aramis as he and Athos come staggering into the kitchen, attached at the lips and clawing frantically at each other's clothes. Aramis nearly slips and falls, all of Athos' weight on him, but Porthos is there--grabs him--holds him up, like Aramis knew he would.

Athos breaks the kiss and looks wildly around, like he's only just realized they're in the fucking kitchen. "Why--?" he gets out, before Aramis is kissing him again.

"We're christening the apartment, remember?" Porthos says, sliding his palms down Aramis' sides to feel him shudder. "Every room."

"I remember _that_ , why are we starting in the kitchen?" Athos gets out around Aramis' determined sucking on his tongue.

"Because I've been fantasizing about sucking you off on the kitchen island since we toured this place," Aramis gasps, twisting up to bite at Athos' ear.

_"Christ,"_ Athos groans wholeheartedly, and shit, Porthos loves the sight of the two of them together--the way Aramis devours Athos' mouth like he'll never get enough, the way Athos pushes into him to get everything Aramis is giving. 

Porthos can't believe they get to have this now--get to fall into each other like this with no fear, no looking over their shoulders. They can fuck all over their apartment and fall asleep together and no one will have to hide in the bedroom because someone from their reserve squad has decided to finally take Aramis up on that offer of borrowing his French press.

"Come on," Aramis hisses, yanking Athos' shirt out of his pants--why the fuck he'd tucked it in, Porthos would never fucking know, did he honestly think they weren't going to fuck the second they closed the door on everyone who'd helped them move in? "Athos, up, c'mon--"

"Why me?" Athos growls into Aramis' collarbone, shoving him hard against Porthos and dropping his hands to Aramis' belt. "What if I want you up there first?"

"Because-- _fuck_ \--because you're the one whose family money's paying for this apartment," Porthos reminds him, breaking off to swear violently as they crowd him against the counter, as Aramis grinds back against his cock.

"And because you are finally no longer my fucking lieutenant," Aramis hisses, wrenching Athos' belt from its loops. "Porthos--"

"Yeah." Porthos knows exactly what Aramis wants, and he lets Aramis slip smoothly to the side so he can get his hands on Athos. 

Athos' startled exclamation as Porthos picks him up is somewhere between a moan and a gasp--that turns very quickly into a groan as Porthos lays him down on the kitchen island and pins Athos' wrists above his head with one hand. Porthos very rarely enjoys using his strength on other people--but Athos, his posh and prim West Point darling, who's always had to be so very in control, fucking _loves_ it, so Porthos gives it to him whenever he can.

"Well, if you're going to twist my arm," Athos gasps, writhing against Porthos' hold as Aramis drags his jeans and boxers down his legs.

"Yes," Aramis moans, on eye level with Athos' straining erection as he drops Athos' jeans. "Oh, fuck, yes--"

And he leans forward to swallow Athos' cock down--in the middle of their new kitchen, in broad fucking daylight, with all the windows open, and Athos arches off the kitchen island and cries out to the rafters.

Porthos holds him, kisses him, strokes Athos' face and hair and bites at his lips, as Aramis makes muffled sounds of pleasure and delight and bobs his head on Athos' cock, as Athos yells and pushes up into both of their touches. It's completely wild, completely unrestrained, and Porthos fucking loves it.

Five years active duty since meeting Athos, three years reserves, and they all have honorable discharges in hand. This is their house now. This is their place. They're free of the fucking Army, of fraternization rules and not asking and of course not fucking telling. They have their own apartment--that they couldn't even visit together, because Athos was so incredibly paranoid in these last few months still tied to the reserves; Athos had found it, toured it with his realtor, and called them to say _it's perfect, it's got everything we need, she'll meet you both there in an hour--_

But they don't have to do that anymore. Athos doesn't have to avoid him and Aramis in public any more--just because their faces can't fucking hide it any more, not after these past three years of being able to do so much more than they ever could before. Aramis can stop having to hide his sketchbooks and paintings because they're full of Athos and Porthos' faces. 

And most importantly, Athos can finally give up his shitty apartment halfway across town, Aramis and Porthos can finally move out of the two-bedroom they'd kept for appearances, and they can all sleep in one room, in the California fucking king bed that they have _earned._

They can hold hands in public. They can hold each other in public. They can have as much sex as they want, as loud as they fucking want to, because it's not against any rules anymore.

Porthos can introduce Aramis and Athos to people with "these are my boyfriends," and he won't lose his job or the honorable discharge he's spent eight years hiding the loves of his life to get.

They're done. They're finally done.

Athos sobs against Porthos' lips and comes into Aramis' mouth, his body twisting up for a long, aching moment before he falls back, limp, onto the kitchen island. Porthos lets go of his wrists, cupping Athos' face in both his hands, and Aramis straightens to stretch up over him.

Athos clings to them both, still shaking wildly, and Porthos kisses his face, Aramis his chest, until Athos' trembling eases and his breath evens. 

"Shit," he gasps finally. "Holy shit."

Aramis smiles wickedly against his collarbone and lifts his head. "And that's only the start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [in the usual place.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos gets his orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going a bit slower to get all this out than I'd hoped, but thank y'all so much for bearing with me.

_November 7, 2014_

It's Porthos' first day off in a week, and even though it's probably afternoon, he hasn't gotten out of bed yet. He's just been drifting and dozing, remembering the warm haze of their morning. It was raining when they woke, and Aramis had brought his own breakfast and Athos' coffee back to bed. Aramis had curled up against Porthos' side to eat his cereal, grumbling softly about having to leave, and Athos had tugged Porthos' head into his lap as he slowly came awake sipping his coffee.

Porthos, for his part, had fallen back asleep as Athos stroked the back of his neck, as Aramis traced a thumb back and forth over his hipbone, only waking again long enough to kiss them both goodbye.

He's still not used to being able to do that--sleep with them, wake up with them, have them promise to come back and be able to mean it.

Porthos smiles into his pillow. It's _great._

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and Porthos sighs, reaching blindly out for it. When he cracks an eye open, _ATHOS_ blinks up at him, and Porthos yawns, accepting the call. "G'morning, gorgeous."

"It's noon," Athos corrects him, but his voice is warm. "Did I wake you?"

"Not really." Porthos stretches and rolls over, kicking out in the huge expanse of their bed. The bedroom in their loft is huge and airy, high ceilings and tall windows--something neither Porthos nor Aramis had ever gotten to experience before Athos and his neverending bank account. "I'm just lying in bed and thinking about how glad I am we married you for your money."

Athos' snort of amusement echoes down the line. "I knew I was the trophy husband."

Porthos laughs and rolls out of bed. He's hungry, and he's awake now. "We thank you and your trust fund every day."

"Almost makes me glad the family disowned me," Athos says, and Porthos makes a face at his phone as he pads into the kitchen. "I shudder to think of the decibels the argument would have reached if they found out exactly what we get up to with it."

Porthos has to laugh, grabbing the box of cornflakes off the counter where Aramis had left it. "They could still come around," he has to say, because it breaks his heart, a little, that Athos can be so cavalier about his family's dismissal of him.

"Of course," Athos says wryly, and as is his prerogative when the subject rolls around to his family, changes it immediately. "I'm glad you're enjoying your morning, but I just wanted to let you know I'm going to be late tonight."

"Late?" Porthos frowns, and holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he reaches up for a stack of cereal bowls. "What's up?"

"I have to run over to Hamilton."

Porthos nearly drops the bowls. As it is, he barely manages to juggle them onto the counter in one piece, then grabs his phone and presses it harder to his ear. "The fort? What for?"

Athos sighs. "Treville asked me to come down. Apparently there are some people who want to talk to me."

"Brass?"

"I think."

"Fuck 'em," Porthos says instantly, nerves jangling in his chest. "Well, not Treville, but you know."

"I do." Athos blows out his breath, and Porthos' calm, happy morning has evaporated with the sound of Athos' tension. "Aramis wasn't happy, either," he adds. "I needed to tell you, though. Look, it shouldn't be too late, I'll call you later."

"Yeah," Porthos sighs, leaning on the island. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Always." Athos' voice softens. "I need to get back," he says then. "Have a good day, okay?"

"Despite this, sure." Porthos smiles, even though Athos can't see it. "Love you. Hope it goes well."

"Love you, too," Athos says. "Aramis will be home about four-thirty, probably in a spectacular fucking mood."

Porthos laughs, promises he'll handle it, and sends Athos off with as many cheerful reassurances as he can muster.

The minute the line clicks dead, he groans and drops his head to the counter.

He accomplishes fuck-nothing for the rest of the day, aimlessly drifting around the loft and picking things up in one place only to just put them down in another. He's reorganized the DVD cabinet three times before he realizes he's just looking for mindless shit to do. He can't stop worrying about Athos, about what the fuck the brass needs him down at Hamilton to talk about.

Aramis announces his return home at three-thirty by slamming the door and crossing the living room in two strides to fling himself unceremoniously onto Porthos' chest.

"Ow, fucking shit," Porthos says conversationally, wrapping his arms around Aramis. "I think my sternum's broken."

"Fuck off," Aramis mumbles into his chest. He's still in his full winter gear--coat, boots, two scarves--and makes absolutely no motion to move off Porthos' chest. "I'm worried, hug me."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Porthos kisses Aramis' cold hair--there are little bits of snow in his dark curls, and Porthos presses his face to Aramis' hair to melt them.

Aramis sighs heavily, burrowing into Porthos' chest some more. "What do you think?" he says, his voice still muffled by Porthos' sweatshirt.

"I think we're gonna drive ourselves nuts thinking about it," Porthos says, flicking a glance over to the DVD cabinet. He should maybe do it one more time. Athos will get irritated if he keeps the Star Wars movies in numerical order rather than release.

"How many times did you reorganize the DVDs?"

"Only three," Porthos grumbles, irritated by the knowing tone in Aramis' voice. "We all deal in our own ways."

Aramis kisses Porthos' neck just above the collar of his sweatshirt. "I'm going to go do mine," he sighs, and pushes himself up off Porthos' chest.

Porthos watches Aramis strip off his coat and scarves--and it makes him feel better, for a second, that little domesticity that he still appreciates every single day. Aramis catches him looking and smiles, coming back to the couch for a proper kiss. 

Porthos stretches up to prolong it as Aramis pulls away, and he grins hopefully. "Any chance I can talk you into our favorite team de-stressing activity?" he says, brushing his nose along Aramis'. 

Aramis grins and kisses him again, slow and lingering. "When he gets home?" Aramis suggests, even as he runs a hand down the length of Porthos' arm. "I was brooding and got an idea on the subway, I just want to get it out--"

"Go," Porthos laughs, settling in on the couch. As much as he wants Aramis, every single second of the day, he'll gladly trade in the sex for Aramis taking care of his own mental health. 

Aramis' quicksilver smile makes him feel a hell of a lot better. As Aramis heads down the hall to his studio, Porthos stretches out and tries to stay relaxed.

It gets darker, and as the shadows get longer, Porthos keeps his thoughts from wandering to Athos by listening to Aramis in the studio. Aramis tends to make a metric fuckton of noise when he paints--he tosses things aside, drags frames around, is cavalier about being loud with the staple gun for his canvases, and leaves paint absolutely everywhere. Porthos loves it. They all spent so long helping Aramis find something that would help him stay even-keeled; having things be a fucking mess is a tiny price to pay for Aramis being happy.

Anyway, after years in the Army, Porthos finds he actually enjoys that things can be a fucking mess sometimes.

At six forty-five, there's a key in the lock, and Porthos starts up from his half-doze on the couch. 

Athos comes in and locks the door behind him, shaking snow out of his hair and unwrapping his favorite twice-his-size scarf. "Hey," he says, smiling faintly at Porthos, and Porthos doesn't know for a second if he can smile back or not. _What happened, what is it?_ he wants to yell, but that's not how polite human beings greet their partners.

"Hey," he says back instead, and the smile comes more easily when he catches the glow of Athos' blue eyes. "Go okay?"

Athos sighs, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up. "It was...what I expected," he says softly, and Porthos gets up and goes to him without a second thought. Athos' shoulders are slumped, weights pressing down on him that Porthos hasn't seen in years, and he sighs out when Porthos draws him close, pulling Athos' back flush against his chest. 

He kisses Athos' temple and squeezes him tightly. "Everything okay?"

Athos turns in his arms instead of answering, and before Porthos can say a word, Athos has stretched up to press an achingly soft kiss to his lips.

For some reason, it makes Porthos' heart sink in his chest.

So when they break apart, he looks closely at Athos, and he sees exactly what he was afraid of. There's a shadow in his eyes, a resignation, that Porthos knows. _Oh, fuck._

"Athos," he asks very calmly and quietly, because if he does that maybe he can control himself enough not to start fucking _weeping,_ "what did they want?"

Athos takes a deep breath and lets it out. "There's a consultant job," he says. "Training freshly deployed soldiers in IED detection, back in Afghanistan. Short-term, just a few months or so, depending on conditions."

"Uh-huh." Porthos swallows hard. "What does that have to do with you?" he asks, and he's silently fucking begging Athos with his eyes to please not give the answer Porthos knows he's going to give--

Athos closes his eyes for a moment, then looks up at Porthos with a miserable set to his jaw. "They're sending me."

There's a shattering crash from the studio.

Porthos and Athos turn as one and bolt across the living room. 

Aramis stands in the middle of his studio, staring with unseeing eyes at the shattered remnants of his jar of paintbrushes, hands out in front of him like Porthos is sure they were when he dropped it. The paint-smeared floor is a mess of broken glass and muddy water, with paintbrushes scattered everywhere, and Porthos can see flecks of blood dotting the tops of Aramis' bare feet. 

Athos is the only one of them in shoes, so it's him who can move across the floor, heedless of the shards of glass everywhere, and take Aramis in his arms. Aramis' hands clutch at him, even as he still stares, blankly, down at the floor, and Porthos grabs a thick tarp from the stack of them in the corner and throws it over the mess. 

When the stained canvas breaks his sight of the scattered brushes, Aramis gasps in a breath and seems to come back to life. His hands tighten on Athos, and he buries his face in Athos' shoulder.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, "that hurt," and Porthos and Athos help him walk gingerly over the tarp, supporting him until he can collapse into the wooden chair by the door. His face is gray and his hands are shaking, and Athos and Porthos share a look over his head.

Athos drops to his knees beside the chair, his hand still firm on Aramis' upper arm. "It's not combat," he says. "It's training first-timers, that's all." 

"Where is it?" Aramis asks. His voice is utterly flat, his dark eyes stormy, and his hand is still very tight in Athos'.

Athos' eyes flick sideways to Porthos. He sighs. "Near Tora Bora. But, Aramis--"

Aramis sucks in a sharp breath and drops his head into his hands. He's shaking all over, now, and Athos puts an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close. "I know," he whispers. "I know, I know, but it's different now, it'll be different."

"I'm gonna get the first aid kit," Porthos mutters, pushing himself upright, because he can do many things, but watch Aramis cry is not one of them--not if he doesn't want to start the waterworks himself. 

It isn't fair, is all he can think, like a child who's having one of its toys taken away. The sheer _unfairness_ of it wells up in the back of his throat and burns at his eyes--Athos is _done,_ they can't ask him to come back. They have a life now. _It isn't fair._

He grabs the plastic box down from the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet, and catches his own reflection in the sink mirror. His face is an ashen gray, as well, and his eyes look like a stranger's eyes.

 _Just because,_ he tells himself, _just because Aramis nearly died there does not mean Athos will._ It's been years. It's much safer now, it won't happen again.

But it could. He knows it could. Porthos is nothing if not a realist.

It takes him ages to tear himself away from the mirror and hurry back down the hall. As he comes closer, he hears their low voices talking quietly. 

Athos is half-kneeling against Aramis' legs, holding Aramis' torso to his as Aramis rests his head on Athos' shoulder. They both look up when Porthos walks in.

"You took your sweet time," Aramis says, his voice ragged and completely unlike his own. It's a good attempt, though, and Porthos smiles encouragingly at him.

"I figured you two needed a sec," he says, and sits down beside the chair. "Let me see those feet."

Aramis surrenders his feet with no protest, allowing Porthos to pick the small shards of glass out. Porthos is always surprised when they let him do delicate things like this with his huge hands. But both Athos and Aramis have somehow gotten it into their heads that he's the _gentle one,_ so. He dabs antiseptic and Neosporin on Aramis' cuts, then sits back on his heels and looks up at him. "Good?"

Aramis nods. His dark eyes are still so distant, and Porthos can tell, from the nervous motion of Athos' hand on his shoulder, that Athos is blaming himself. 

"Suppose it's too late to change your mind, huh?" Porthos said, trying to be funny and missing by a mile.

Athos closes his eyes, and in a completely uncharacteristic display of comfort-seeking, drops his head in Aramis' lap. Aramis looks down at him in surprise before his face shifts to something tender and worried, and he threads his fingers through Athos' hair. 

"It has to be me," Athos says softly. "They need someone now, someone from our time, and I'm the only person who's trained in that, who has command and tactical experience in that region. The only who isn't tied down to something they see as unshakeable right now." He swallows hard and hides his face against Aramis' leg. "I'm so sorry," he says, his voice muffled. "But it has to be me."

Porthos and Aramis share a look, and Aramis strokes his fingertips over Athos' scalp. Aramis' worry and misery are plain on his face, and Porthos doesn't feel any fucking better about it--but they won't tell Athos not to go. They all spent too long over there; they know this is important.

But there's no way that the only person in the entire fucking world that could do this is Athos. Even with all that he'd said, even with all his specialized skills--there has to be someone else. They'd called _Athos_ , specifically, for a reason.

Now's really not the time to call him on that, though, so Porthos bites his tongue and just holds them both.

It seems like ages later when Aramis straightens with an unsteady sigh. "I'm hungry," he says softly, pushing his hands through Athos' hair. "I'll make some pasta?"

"Sure," Porthos says, letting Athos lean back into him so Aramis can get up. "Need help?"

Aramis shakes his head stiffly and wanders out into the hallway. The two of them follow after a moment, hands clasped tightly together, and when Porthos goes back to sit on the couch, Athos climbs up next to him instantly.

It's easy to find the words, then.

"I still don't understand," Porthos says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Athos, I don't understand why it has to be you."

Athos laces his fingers through Porthos', and is silent for a long moment. "Because they wanted it to be Aramis," Athos says, so quietly Porthos barely hears him.

But he does. And then he goes cold all over. He swallows hard, drops his voice to a breath. "What?"

"I'm not the only person with experience in that region who isn't on another duty assignment," Athos says, still very quiet, very collected. "Aramis is, too. And he was far better at IED detection than me, if you remember."

Porthos does remember, and he swallows down the slippy chill of nausea in his chest. They wanted Aramis?

Athos stares straight ahead, watching Aramis clatter around in the kitchen, and Porthos can see the reflected shine in Athos' blue eyes. "That was why Treville called me. He knew they were going to ask Aramis, but he convinced them to talk to me first. They said they just wanted to hear what I thought, if I thought he'd be fit to go back."

Porthos pulls Athos closer, glances over at Aramis, too. He's still pale from Athos dropping this on them, and his dark eyes seem distant as he takes seasoning jars from the rack on feel, not even looking at them.

Aramis would not, at all, be fit to go back.

"I couldn't let them," Athos says, even quieter. "And I couldn't risk them coming up with some excuse to try and take you, too. So I said I would go." He toys with the seam of Porthos' pocket for a moment, then adds, "I wonder if that wasn't their plan all along."

It's underhanded as fuck, but Porthos wouldn't put anything _underhanded_ past the Army anymore, after the clusterfuck that was that battle near Tora Bora. He knows that sending someone like Athos is necessary--no matter how Porthos feels about the war now, losing good people to unnecessary carnage is awful, and IEDs hurt civilians as much as soldiers--but he still wants to say _no,_ wants to storm down there and scream _why Athos, why Aramis, why the three of us, can't you leave us fucking alone, we've done enough._

They dangled the threat of taking Aramis in front of Athos to force him to volunteer. 

Porthos could punch something.

"Don't tell him," Athos says. "I don't want him to think they've got their eyes on him."

"I won't." Porthos wraps his arms around Athos and pulls him close to his chest. "I think we're both gonna be busy enough worrying about you."

"It'll be fine." But Athos sounds less than convinced, and Porthos hugs him closer.

They don't say much until the pasta's done, and then once they're sitting down, they say even less. Or, rather, they say one thing and all know it means something completely different.

"I was thinking about the winter break programs," Porthos says, doing his best not to look at Athos. "Y'know, at the center." _Are you going to be back at all for them?_

"I have, too," Athos says, as he pushes a single penne tube back and forth through a puddle of olive oil. "I think d'Artagnan's really excited for some real programming." _He won't be me, but he'll be enough._

"I'm sure we'll all be excited for the kids to be done with school for a few weeks." Aramis is looking steadily back and forth between them. "And when you'll be home to spend time with them," he adds as he looks sideways at Athos, effectively breaking the wall of silence they'd been purposefully erecting around the topic.

Athos doesn't look up. "I hope so," he says, and Porthos can only see the edges of his face through his hair. Athos' skin is paler than usual, and his knuckles are white where he grips his fork.

Porthos abruptly feels like shit. He loves Athos. He doesn't want to shame him into staying, or guilt him into feeling terrible to leave them. Athos clearly doesn't want to go. It isn't Porthos and Aramis' job to make him want to do it even less--not when he's already signed on; not when he did it to protect them in the first place.

Porthos glances over at Aramis to find him gazing steadily at Athos' face. His dark eyes are a mess of emotion, and when he looks over at Porthos, Porthos goes under in a second.

"Athos," Aramis says, and Athos glances up.

Aramis flows gracefully up from his chair and holds out a hand to Athos. "Come to bed," he says, his voice power in the air like thunder, and all Athos or Porthos can do is nod. Aramis takes Athos' hand, hooks Porthos with his eyes, and leads the two of them into the bedroom. 

Porthos follows half a step behind Athos, his pulse jumping in his throat. Aramis' look won't get out of his head. Dark-eyed and stormy--a little frightened, but _wanting,_ his jaw set and ticked to say, _I'm fine, I fucking dare you to say otherwise._ Porthos knows exactly what Aramis wants to do, and he's more than happy to help. 

In the soft light of their bedroom, Aramis and Porthos lay Athos out on the bed and worship his body. They have time, Porthos knows in his head that they do, even if his heart isn't sure. He won't be leaving for a week, at least. But it feels important tonight, so. 

They strip him, hold him, taste him--taste his body and his breath, as he gasps, as he chokes on his own air and pushes up into them. There's the same desperation to Athos' motion as there is to theirs--grabbing tight, holding hard and fast, and Porthos knows Athos is too far gone to realize how he's clinging to them. How he moans their names into the air and they kiss his into his skin in response. 

Porthos remembers when they didn't even _know_ his name, when he was someone else entirely to them. _I know you now,_ he traces into Athos' abdomen with the tip of his tongue. _We know you. We know everything about you, we know who you are, we love you._

Nobody cries. Thank fuck.

It's going to be longest "few months" of Porthos' life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [here if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos is keeping count of how many times he would have deserted, injured a superior officer, or fucking mutinied and stolen a Jeep to go find Aramis if de la Fere hadn't been there to stop him.
> 
> It's up to eight, right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened and I've been absolutely terrible at responding to comments, I'm so very sorry. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm about this story! You may notice I've added a total chapter count now; I reserve the right to change it (:P) but there should be four more solid-sized chapters after this'n.

_December two-weeks-since-Aramis-was-hurt, 2001_   
_still somewhere near Tora Bora, who the fuck gives a shit_

Porthos is keeping count of how many times he would have deserted, injured a superior officer, or fucking mutinied and stolen a Jeep to go find Aramis if de la Fere hadn't been there to stop him.

It's up to eight, right now. 

It's not like de la Fere ever physically restrains him, or says a word, or does anything but just give Porthos one of those looks from those eyes of his. It's almost embarrassing how everything in Porthos' body responds to one of those looks. His rebellious anger quiets, the furious worry stills a bit, and he can--if not quite relax--at least breathe through it.

De la Fere understands. De la Fere, though he barely shows it, is frustrated, too, by the wall of silence the brass have put up around where, exactly, the injured soldiers from the skirmish two weeks ago have been taken. De la Fere asks as often as he feels is appropriate, and Porthos asks much more often, and they're both continually met with _classified, classified, Duvallon I know you care about your squadmates but if you ask me that one more time I'm shipping you to the ass-end of nowhere and don't even think about asking de la Fere._

De la Fere. Porthos realizes more and more, every day, that he's too close to de la Fere. He thinks of the man as a friend when they both know he shouldn't be, he can't be. De la Fere's his superior officer: the second lieutenant who's rapidly distinguishing himself well enough to be promoted to first soon enough, because in between holding Porthos' fucking hand through this mess, he's somehow able to get all his shit done and be an example to the rest of the squad, the platoon, the whole fucking Army.

De la Fere is every one of Porthos' dreams, side-by-side with Aramis, and Porthos wakes up grinding his hips into the bed and cursing under his breath. 

He doesn't know if he's fixating because he misses Aramis, or because de la Fere's being kind to him, or what. It doesn't matter if he's starting to fall for de la Fere for any of those reasons, or just because he's tough and smart and has a voice like smoke and bourbon. It doesn't matter. Not only is it illegal, it's _illegal,_ and it could get him thrown out of the Army. Loving Aramis is one thing, at least they're both just the lowest of the low--de la Fere's an officer, as well as another man, so he might as well be on the fucking moon for all that he's available to fulfill any of Porthos' lonely, aching thoughts. 

So days like this, when de la Fere's in the front passenger seat of the Jeep Porthos is driving, taking him and a few other officers to a meeting of all the commanders in their region? They're fucking torture. 

De la Fere's up front because he's got good eyes, a second person to watch for IEDs or oncoming trouble. He seems to have picked up on Porthos' tension, because he's not looking at Porthos, not even letting his body language be open to him. His hand is tense on his own thigh _(stop fucking looking at his thigh, Duvallon, you complete fucking goner)_ and he keeps his eyes on the road.

Behind them, the other officers are talking. Porthos only has to hear "field hospital" before he's listening, as hard as he can while still giving his attention to the road. 

"It's a damn shame that we lost so many," the captain of their battalion's saying to the first lieutenant. "We'll be getting some of them back, but brass wants to keep them there for right now."

"I'm just worried about the vehicles, sir, we're going to be undermanned if we have to go on like this--"

Porthos' eyes are flicking to de la Fere before he can stop himself. From the twist of de la Fere's brow, he can tell that de la Fere's listening, too.

_We lost so many--we'll be getting some of them back..._

Just some? 

The thought's like ice in his chest. _Aramis, lover, are you gone already and nobody told me?_

They may not even be talking about his squad, Porthos tells himself. They could be talking about a different group, about people who were meant to reinforce them--they could be talking about the Special Forces groups getting dropped into Tora Bora, they could mean anything.

They might not mean Aramis.

He doesn't make eye contact with de la Fere until they're at the site, until the officers all head into a rough-edged concrete building, and de la Fere glances back over his shoulder at Porthos standing beside the Jeep. 

There's a haunted look in de la Fere's eyes, but his jaw's shifted pugnaciously forward, and Porthos feels instantly better.

They're going to get some answers. They have to.

The meeting goes on for at least an hour, and Porthos makes a little small talk with the other soldiers waiting. They're full of chatter about what's happening over in Tora Bora, about how the Special Forces are making an assault on the caves, and Porthos wishes he could care--but he knows that no matter what happens in Tora Bora tonight, he's still going to have to be here for a long fucking time. 

Plus he's preoccupied with the two men he's in illegal same-sex love with, and there's just too fucking much going on for him to care about an engagement he's not directly involved in.

That's when the officers come out. 

Porthos seeks out de la Fere automatically--and blinks. 

Well, that's different.

De la Fere is furious and barely containing it. Every limb in his body is tense and he's grinding his teeth, and his blue eyes flash every time someone dares to look at him. He barely acknowledges Porthos' salute, heaving himself up into the front seat of the Jeep and glowering into the distance at nothing.

When Porthos hauls himself up and gets the car started, as he checks his passenger-side mirror, he catches de la Fere's eye. The single glance de la Fere affords him tells Porthos, very clearly, _Later._

Porthos is in a state of nervous agony the entire drive back, and not just because it's getting dark and harder to see the road.

The officers clear out of the Jeep the minute they get back to the camp, and the captain dismisses de la Fere to get some food and a shower. Porthos will be dismissed to his evening routine when he's finished checking over the Jeep, and his heart kicks back up into overdrive when de la Fere lingers by the Jeep.

"I know why we haven't heard anything," de la Fere says very quietly, as Porthos checks the wheels of the truck. 

"Yes, sir?" Porthos keeps his eyes very firmly on the ground.

"We were a diversion," de la Fere says, in that low and controlled voice that Porthos is starting to realize means he does not have a grip, at all. "They were moving arms for the assault on Tora Bora, and they needed to get behind the Taliban group they knew was still there. So they sent our half of the convoy out first, and slipped the weapons past while we were getting picked off like fish in a barrel."

Porthos crouches, his eyes on the fucking tire and his body totally still for a long, long few minutes before it sinks in. "This was a plan." It's not a question.

De la Fere lets out a sharp breath. "The captain will tell the whole battalion tomorrow. We're all on gag order. Officially, this never happened. Everyone who's injured or killed will be reported as injured or killed in action in something bigger later this year. No one gets to see them until them. Which is why--"

"The field hospital," Porthos says, rage slowly starting to build in his chest. "So they could hide them."

They didn't deserve this. His _squad_ didn't deserve this, _Aramis_ didn't-- 

Aramis.

"Is he all right, then, will they tell you?" he demands as he looks up, forgetting in the heat of his anger that de la Fere is his superior officer. De la Fere's blue eyes flash to him, and Porthos swears inwardly. "I mean--sir, is there any news, I just want to know--"

"I know what you meant," de la Fere says. "And I seem to remember telling you to _be careful."_

He could have dumped an ice bucket out on Porthos' head in the middle of the Afghan summer, and it wouldn't have jolted Porthos so terrifyingly viscerally as those words do now.

Porthos looks back down at the Jeep, his face fucking _flushing,_ and no one had better come around and see Porthos fucking blushing in front of de la Fere because they will either get exactly the right or exactly the wrong idea.

"I know you're worried," de la Fere goes on, in that controlled voice of his. "And I can sympathize, Duvallon, but if you think I don't know what happens to us when they--"

He breaks off abruptly, and Porthos' heart leaps somewhere into the region of his throat.

The silence presses in on his ears--de la Fere's silence, against the chattering, shouting backdrop of the camp, and Porthos doesn't dare look up. "Us, sir," he says, very carefully not adding an interrogative lift to the end of that sentence.

He's not supposed to ask, after all.

De la Fere swears under his breath. 

When he finally answers, there's a peculiar... _defeated_ edge to his voice. "Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies, Porthos," he says, the words barely audible.

Porthos' heart slams in his chest and he can barely swallow around the nervous emotions boiling up in his throat--he's not sure, but he's pretty sure there's fear and shame and an ungodly amount of _hope_ , for some absurd reason. 

"Yes, sir," he says eventually, because he has to say something.

De la Fere is twitchy, looking around like he'd rather be anywhere but here, and Porthos' heart hurts. "Finish looking over that Jeep and you're dismissed, Duvallon," de la Fere says shortly, and Porthos rocks back onto his heels, snaps up into a salute. 

Then he's gone, and Porthos is left sitting on the sand and rocks, staring at the muddy treads of a Jeep and thinking about the way that _Porthos_ had sounded on de la Fere's lips.

\- - -

Three days later, the Special Forces and CIA have cleared Tora Bora and Porthos' battalion has fuck-all to do here anymore.

He's roused from his bunk at five in the morning by de la Fere rapping on the frame. Porthos jerks upright, blinking wildly, and for a moment is dazed enough to think that he's still dreaming. De la Fere had _definitely_ been in his dream, and looking pretty much exactly the way he is right now--Porthos' stomach twists with fucking _shameful_ arousal at the residual want the sight of him triggers. That dream was definitely not PG-13.

They haven't spoken since that fiasco of a sharing-is-caring moment behind the Jeep. Porthos has no idea what he's doing here.

"Get up," de la Fere says. "I've talked the captain into letting me go visit our squad at the field hospital, and they said you can drive me."

Porthos is out of bed like a fucking jack-in-the-box, and they're on the road in less than twenty minutes. 

He's got a few handwritten notes and letters from his other squadmates to the injured ones--a few battered books taken from bunks, decks of cards, things to cheer them up and keep them occupied. Porthos doesn't mind being the mailman--loves it, actually; he always played Santa for the other kids in the shelter around Christmas.

He doesn't have anything for Aramis. There was a book that Aramis had been reading that's still in his bunk at camp, but Porthos couldn't quite bring himself to grab it and stow it in his jacket.

The thought of having to carry it all the way back, if Aramis isn't there to get it, is just a little too much. 

"Try to keep a grip on yourself," de la Fere says, when they're miles from camp. He's staring at the road, not at Porthos (when Porthos flicks a sideways look at him), and for some reason his pale cheeks are flushed slightly. "I won't say anything, but. You never know."

"I know," Porthos says. He's nervous. He's fucking nervous. He's trying to stay calm. "I just...y'know, I don't know if he's okay, or. Anything."

"I know." De la Fere is very quiet, and that's the last thing they say until they get to the field hospital.

It's a nondescript concrete building in the middle of a small camp, a single squad of troops guarding it, and the sight makes Porthos' blood boil all over again. Their squad deserved better. Aramis deserves better.

The two of them park the Jeep, and de la Fere introduces himself to the lieutenant of the squad. It's almost amusing to see the way the lieutenant responds to him--even though he clearly outranks de la Fere, there's something about de la Fere's poise, his fucking _breeding_ , that clearly makes the other man feel intimidated.

He shows them inside the field hospital with little ceremony, and de la Fere's unfailing courtesy is turned on the small group of doctors.

"I wanted to show my men that their squad is still thinking of them," he says to the chief medical officer, his voice so perfectly polite that it makes Porthos' teeth itch a little bit. 

"They'll appreciate it," the chief medical officer says--she's a harried-looking woman with kind eyes, steel-gray bun more tightly wound than de la Fere, and she leads them down the hall to the ward without any preamble. "It's been a very difficult few weeks for the ones in recovery."

Porthos hasn't stopped biting his tongue since they walked in the door. _Aramis,_ he wants to ask, _is Aramis still here, can we stop the fucking small talk and let me see him or can I just go fucking cry alone in a corner for little while--_

But then she opens the door and lets de la Fere in to greet the men, and Porthos forgets to breathe.

The ward has ten neat beds, eight of which are filled with members of their convoy--four from his squad, four from the other groups, and Porthos' eyes pass over seven faces without registering more than recognition until he hits the farthest bed in the corner.

Aramis lies there, curled in on his side and staring at the far wall.

He's alive, he's _alive, he's fucking alive and he's here and he's alive and why isn't he looking over, why's he just lying there, is he--_

"And Porthos brought some things from the rest of the squad," de la Fere says, his voice dragging Porthos back into the moment.

Right. Get a grip.

Porthos swallows, hard, and looks at the bunk nearest him. "Hey, Meyers," he says, forces a smile, and reaches into his jacket. "Got a letter for you." 

"Hey, man," Meyers says, clasping his hand and taking the letter with a grin. "How's it going out there?"

"Not bad," Porthos says, using all the willpower he has not to look over at Aramis' bunk. "You guys?"

Meyers grins at him and looks down the row. "Glad to see you, I bet," he says, then raises his voice. "Hey. Hey, Herrera!"

"What," Aramis calls back, his voice totally flat. Nerves spike in Porthos' chest--Aramis doesn't do _emotionless,_ not usually, not like that. Why wouldn't he roll over and look at them himself?

Meyers catches Porthos' worried look, and he grimaces slightly, wobbling one hand back and forth in the universal _could be better, could be worse_ gesture. "Herrera, check it out," he calls, more gently. "See who's here."

Aramis lifts his head at that, his face dull and emotionless as he rolls over--

And then his eyes connect with Porthos', and he blinks, his eyes widening.

"But if you're not interested, we'll hang out with Duvallon instead," Meyers says, that same halfway-gentle tone to his voice, and Aramis' face comes alive.

"You can have him when I'm done," Aramis says, pushing himself upright, and he makes an impatient _come here come here now_ gesture to Porthos.

"Nobody's gonna steal your best friend," Tejada calls good-naturedly, and Porthos flashes them all as casual and cheerful a look as he can manage as he strides down the ward to Aramis' bed.

Aramis is smiling, but it's clear that it's forced for everyone else's benefit. Aramis' eyes are too dark, the circles underneath them plain, and for all that he's smiling, he looks at Porthos like he's not sure that he's real. 

Porthos clasps Aramis' outstretched hand and drops to the bed beside him, pulling Aramis in and throwing his other arm around him. "Hey, brother," he says, trying to keep his voice light, trying to keep the shake out of his limbs while everyone's watching them. 

"Hey," Aramis whispers in his ear, and Aramis is shaking violently. "Porthos."

Porthos draws back (Aramis clings, and he hates that he has to pull back), and he manages a smile as he searches Aramis' face. "Glad to hear you talking," he says, keeping one hand on Aramis' shoulder as he regretfully lets the other fall. "And smiling."

Aramis' smile is a weak thing, but it's there. "Yeah, I've stopped waking everyone up screaming every night," he says, managing to make it about halfway to his usual good humor. "It's only every few days now, so. Progress." 

There are simultaneously too many things and absolutely nothing Porthos can say to that, and Porthos knows they're going to have to talk about that--knows, in that moment, that they will probably be talking about that, dealing with that, for the rest of their lives. 

He wants to, though. He can't stand the idea of Aramis lying here, alone, in this tiny little bed, waking up screaming. Porthos will do absolutely anything to help Aramis get himself through this. 

Porthos' chest _aches_ , but then Aramis smiles, and that's all Porthos needs to just be totally lost for him, all over again.

Aramis clasps Porthos' shoulder in turn, and his eyes say everything, even if his lips can't. "Much better seeing you," Aramis says, and Porthos has to look away so he doesn't lean in and kiss him. 

"I should have brought your book," he says, guilty suddenly. 

"I didn't miss the book." Aramis' voice is far too low, far too intense, and Porthos is deeply glad there's nobody in the next bed, that Aramis is in the corner, because they're a little too clearly _more than best friends_ right now and Porthos doesn't know what to do.

"Well, I do," Porthos jokes, looking back at him with a forced smile. "Don't want you to get bored waiting to heal up. How's that leg?"

"Still can't walk on it. Trying every day, they say to give it a few weeks." Aramis is still staring at him with those unsettlingly dark eyes, and Porthos wants to cry for how badly he wants to hold him, just to wrap him up and let him shake it all out. Shake apart and come back together, safe in Porthos' arms.

"Y'know," Porthos says, fighting the tremor in his voice, "I think this is the longest I haven't seen you since boot camp?"

Aramis' shaky bark of laughter helps, a little. "Probably." He blinks bright eyes and squeezes Porthos' shoulder, and fuck, they're still holding each other, that has to look suspicious, right?

Porthos lets his hand fall again, relieved when Aramis does the same--relieved and upset at the same time. He fucking hates this. He just wants to be alone with him.

"I'm sorry," he says then, not sure what he's apologizing for. Everything, probably.

"Me, too," Aramis says, shifting slightly so his unhurt leg, under the blankets, presses against Porthos'. "I'll try not to get myself almost killed next time."

"Do," a new voice says, rescuing them from getting too lost in each other, and Porthos looks up to see de la Fere standing stiffly at the foot of the bed. He's in fucking parade rest, and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. "How are you, Herrera?" he asks, the picture of politeness, still.

"Getting better, sir, thank you," Aramis says, and there's an off note to his voice that makes Porthos look back at him. 

When they'd pulled him out of the Jeep, Aramis had been looking at de la Fere with an unsettling intensity. He's looking at him the same way, now, and Porthos doesn't know how to read it. 

"I didn't thank you for pulling me out, sir," Aramis says then, his voice still half a shade off.

De la Fere colors at that, and he dips his head slightly. "That isn't necessary."

"It is for me, sir."

It's then--right then--that Porthos realizes Aramis and de la Fere are having an entirely different conversation than the one he's hearing. He's not really sure what it's about, but he's an expert at unspoken conversations with Aramis--and now, sort of, with de la Fere--and he can recognize the signs enough to realize the other two are talking around something.

De la Fere is trying to look anywhere but at Aramis' face--incredibly subtly, but still, it's clear--yet his eyes keep tracking back to Aramis and Porthos, to the bed where they sit. And Aramis is looking fixedly at de la Fere, his eyes tracking every little motion even as his leg jitters restlessly against Porthos' under the blanket.

De la Fere looks briefly back to Aramis--or at least, it looks like he wanted it to be brief; it looks like he tried to just glance but his eyes got stuck (Porthos knows the feeling), and now he and Aramis are just looking at each other. "It was my job, Herrera," he says. Porthos can read his voice well enough now to pick up on a strange note--almost pleading. 

Aramis swallows, and tilts his head slightly, questioning. "It was above and beyond, sir, but thank you anyway," he says, very softly, and Porthos suddenly remembers that de la Fere was whispering to Aramis when they were kneeling beside the Jeep. Porthos hadn't been able to hear. What had he said to put this look on Aramis' face?

"You're under my command, Herrera," de la Fere says, his voice steadying slightly, but it still doesn't feel like the rock-solid ground he usually stands on. "Of course I'll have your back."

Aramis looks just as steadily back at him, and he seems calmed, for some reason, like he's more himself than he has since Porthos walked in. "And we'll have yours, sir," he says. 

De la Fere nods once, tears his eyes away, and walks back to the other end of the ward.

Porthos has no fucking clue what just happened. When he looks back at Aramis, he finds Aramis looking after de la Fere, completely stone-faced. 

And it's the completely expressionless expression that finally makes it click for Porthos. 

That's the face that Aramis makes when he knows he's going to give something away if he doesn't hide it; when he'd be smiling too wide, or glazed over with lust, or giving Porthos that look of unmistakable adoration Porthos has only been able to see a handful of times.

It's the face he usually makes when he's stopping himself from hooking a hand into Porthos' collar and dragging him into a kiss in front of witnesses.

Oh. 

_Oh._

Something in Porthos wonders if he should be jealous--but he's been having dreams about fucking de la Fere into the bed for nearly a week now, so he's in no position to get rude about it. 

"Me, too," he says quietly, because he's never been able to have any secrets from Aramis.

Aramis jumps, looks swiftly to Porthos like he's been caught out. Porthos just looks steadily back, wondering if the helpless affection he has for both of them shows on his face at all. And after a moment, Aramis' stony expression softens into something a little more relieved, and his leg presses hard against Porthos' under the sheet.

"It's a fucking mess, isn't it?" Aramis says. His deep brown eyes are a little overwhelmed, and Porthos feels the same way.

"Yeah," Porthos says, because what the fuck else can he say? "It sort of just--sneaked up on me."

Aramis nods, staring down at the blanket--at Porthos' hand, and Porthos knows he's wishing they could have their fingers wrapped together right now. "I don't want to think it's just because of the--" He swallows hard, tripping over the word-- _battle, accident, worst day of my life_. "Because of what happened. I don't want that to color every single part of the rest of my life, but--"

He looks back up after de la Fere, helplessly, and Porthos presses his leg against Aramis' through the sheet. "Has it just been--since then?"

Aramis' cheeks flush, and he stares down at the blanket. Porthos can see the _no_ on his face, but then he sees the guilt, the worry, too--and how ridiculous is it, that Aramis worries about being _unfaithful_ to Porthos when they can't even be together? But he wouldn't be Aramis if he didn't worry about everyone else's heart before his own, so.

"I'm not gonna be mad," Porthos whispers. He has to say _something_ straightforward, all this dancing around is driving him fucking insane-- "Aramis, I feel the same, I'm not mad."

Aramis closes his eyes, then, and he dares just a quick squeeze of Porthos' hand, letting go and pulling away almost too soon for Porthos to feel it. "Okay," he says, his voice unsteady. "Good, then."

"We'll talk about it when you're on your feet again," Porthos says, because they are not going to try and figure out their complicated feelings about their infuriatingly skilled and gorgeous lieutenant when Aramis is still recovering from not just an injury, but some serious fucking trauma.

Aramis opens his eyes and makes a face at him, but Porthos can tell he understands the wisdom of it. "Probably best," Aramis says. "We won't really have a chance to until then." Anybody listening would think Aramis means _a chance to talk_ with that unspoken infinitive, but Porthos knows he means _a chance to be alone_ , and privately he wonders if they're even going to get that. Who knows when the next time they'll be together is?

But he says, "Okay," and smiles at Aramis all the same. It's easier right now to just imagine that there will be a time, soon, to be alone and talk about all this.

They both look over at de la Fere, who's smiling and talking to their other injured squadmates--which means neither Porthos nor Aramis misses the look de la Fere flashes back their way. 

For half an unguarded second, it's that same look he'd given them when he caught them kissing. Only now, with Aramis beside him, Porthos can frame it in a way he couldn't before.

_Longing._

And then he remembers the way de la Fere had frozen when he caught them kissing. He remembers de la Fere's face when they'd seen Aramis pinned down for that single, awful second. He remembers the little sound like pain de la Fere had let out when Aramis caught his hand, under the Jeep. He remembers the way de la Fere has sought Porthos himself out over the past few weeks, giving him a chance to drive, telling him what's going on, reminding Porthos to be careful, not to give anyone a reason to look twice at him.

_If you think I don't know what happens to us when they..._

"Shit," Aramis says beside him, his voice tightening, and Porthos looks hastily away from de la Fere, back at Aramis.

Aramis looks at Porthos with wide-eyed surprise, looking younger and somehow vulnerable, with those dark circles under his eyes and the lingering traces of the battle on his face. Porthos feels the strongest urge to comfort him, but he has no idea what to do, what to say. 

Oh.

Well.

Shit just got more complicated, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was not a skirmish suitable for my purposes in the fall of 2001, so I made one up and then made it classified so it wouldn't have gone in "the official record." Maybe not legit, but I'm pretty sure my government has done far more disgusting things that _actually_ happened that they've never told us about, so. A little dramatic license. As always, you can find me [at my tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 2007, a moment together. In 2014, an important meeting and an even more important message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one today; these two parts were always supposed to go together, but the second half got waaay long (dammit, Athos).

_December 18, 2007_

"I should go," Athos says drowsily, stretching like a cat in Porthos' lap and turning his face up into the sunshine. 

"No, you shouldn't," Porthos murmurs, and holds him tighter. The sun is out for the first time all December, and he and Athos lie curled up on the battered love seat beneath the only west-facing window in his and Aramis' tiny apartment. 

"I'm _expected_ at dinner," Athos sighs, his voice dropping to mimic the General's formal tones, but he doesn't move. "I need to go home and change."

"You look fine." Porthos kisses his hair. "You look like sex on a stick, you always do."

Athos snorts. "I'm in your clothes."

"Like I said."

"Said what?" Aramis asks, coming back into the living room. He'd gotten up to use the bathroom, and he's come back with his sketchbook tucked against his chest and an open bottle of Merlot dangling from his fingers. 

"He's talking about leaving," Porthos says, hooking his arms around Athos' back and lacing his own fingers together, encircling Athos completely. "Tell him no."

"No," Aramis says automatically, and he drops into the chair next to the loveseat and props his feet up on Porthos' thigh. "We're not nearly ready to give you up yet."

Porthos feels Athos grin against his chest, and with another sigh, Athos settles more fully between Porthos' legs, curling onto his side and resting against Porthos' torso. "Well, maybe a little longer, then," he yawns, and he sounds so drowsy and content, Porthos never wants let him go.

They have the week off from the Reserves and the youth center's closed for Christmas, so they're free, completely, until the twenty-sixth. Nobody's coming to look for them, there's nowhere else they need to be, so Athos hasn't left their apartment for three days. He's slept over, he's woken up with them, they've gotten to spend every minute together in a way that they almost never get to. 

Porthos kisses Athos' hair again, before resting his cheek against it. Athos has been letting it grow out since the minute they finished active duty, because Treville lets them stretch the grooming regs for their unit and everyone takes advantage. It's got a little curl to it, now. Porthos likes it.

"Stay like that," Aramis says, and when Porthos glances over to him, he sees Aramis' eyes glittering, his sketchbook in his lap and a pencil in hand. Aramis grins at him, his pencil dancing over the page. "Just like that."

Athos sighs, turning his face into Porthos' chest. "Aramis," he begins, his voice tight, but Aramis hushes him. 

"No one sees these, Athos," Aramis reminds him. "They stay locked in the drawer by the bed." A flicker of irritation crosses his face, and he frowns at the page, his strokes turning rougher before he relaxes and calms them.

Porthos growls low in his chest, because it irritates the fuck out of him, too. The pictures Aramis draws of Athos, of Porthos: the sketches of their faces, the long lines of their bodies together--they're beautiful. Aramis' love shows in his art, and Porthos--well, he's not a vain guy, but he's not blind, and he knows he looks good. And Athos is gorgeous, and Aramis can always capture his eyes just right. 

For all that Aramis says the drawing and painting is just to help him sleep at night, Porthos knows the art's become more to him. And it matters to Porthos, too--Aramis is an artist, really, truly, and no one's seeing what he can really do. Those pictures of them are his best work, and no one will ever get to see them--not as long as they're in the Reserves, not as long as fucking DADT's still around.

Athos still considers them "an unconscionable risk," as he's said many times, but he's never said no. Athos, too, is fiercely protective of Aramis' art, even if he squirms a bit at being in it. So he just sighs, a little tense against Porthos' chest, and tilts his face so Aramis can see it better.

Aramis gives them both a satisfied look, and Porthos closes his eyes to the rasp of Aramis' pencil over paper. Aramis has been drawing absolutely everything lately; it's become one of Porthos' favorite sounds.

Athos eventually breaks the peaceful silence with a bitter groan. He's never quite able to get away from thoughts of his family, when he's anticipating a meeting. "I don't want to _go,"_ Athos says into Porthos' chest, through gritted teeth. "Mother will ask me when I'm going to marry one of the girls from the country club, the General's going to keep asking me when I'm going to give up this little rebellion and go back to active duty, and I'm going to have to smile and lie through my teeth like I've done every fucking holiday for my entire life."

"So don't go," Aramis says softly, frowning down at his sketch and shifting his pencil in his hand. "Stay here with us."

Athos sighs. "I wish it were that simple."

Porthos kisses his hair again and holds him tighter. "Babe, I don't understand why you go back."

Athos burrows his head a little deeper into Porthos' sweatshirt. "Because," he says, his voice muffled, "I think it would be worse not to." There's something a little vulnerable in his voice, and sometimes it's easy for Porthos to forget that Athos is barely two months older than him. They're not even pushing twenty-nine yet, and while Porthos knows plenty of people who broke with their families much younger, he can't begrudge Athos for wanting to stick it out a few more years.

Porthos never really had a family. The complicated dynamics of Athos' give him a headache.

He sighs and strokes Athos' hair, pushing his fingers into the dark waves. "We love you." That's all that matters, really.

Athos hums a soft sound, then thinks about it too much and groans. "I'll have to tell them that, sometime, too," Athos mutters, and he buries himself more firmly in Porthos' arms. 

Porthos and Aramis exchange a look. One corner of Aramis' mouth tilts up in a rueful smile--his own family, once they'd gotten over the fact that he wouldn't be biologically reproducing any time soon, have been wonderful to Athos and Porthos, and the extended Herrera clan fills their needs for a support system pretty well. Porthos' foster siblings, while they stay in touch, don't quite understand, and Porthos hasn't spoken to his last set of foster parents since they threw him out for kissing a boy his junior year of high school.

They've never assumed Athos' family will love them. Athos expects the worst--is planning on telling them once they're done with the Reserves, because the General's bad reaction could be awful for all three of them--and all Porthos and Aramis can do is hold him up in the meantime.

It's been hard on Athos, having to live alone while Aramis and Porthos can at least share this apartment (two bedrooms, for appearances' sake, but Aramis hasn't slept in his "bedroom" since they moved in). Porthos prays every single day that they'll get through this, that being this close and still not able to be together won't break them. 

They may not have known quite what to do with Athos at first, but now, six years on, Porthos wouldn't know what to do without him.

"Aramis," Athos asks, his voice still muffled, "are you done with that sketch yet?"

Aramis blinks up at him. "I can come back to it, I've got the positions now."

"Good. Come here."

Aramis smiles, one of those heart-stopping slow burn sunrises, and uncoils himself from his chair. He joins them on the love seat, laying down on Athos' back, and wraps his arms around him, to hold him secure against Porthos' chest. "I love you," he murmurs against the back of Athos' neck, and kisses his hair.

"I love you," Athos sighs, lacing his fingers through Aramis' and rubbing his cheek against Porthos' chest, and the tightness in Porthos' chest eases a little. "It's only two more years, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Porthos sighs, and puts his arms around them both. "Only two." Two more years, and then nothing will stop them from being together.

 

_December 19, 2014_

It's been ten days since Athos went missing. 

The media found out about it on day three. Aramis stopped sleeping around day five. Porthos has been having night terrors since day seven, when CNN got their disgusting mitts on a grainy video sent to the US Army heads in Afghanistan demanding a prisoner exchange, and blasted it all over the internet.

Constance had texted Porthos and Aramis in a panic the day it leaked. They'd both gotten a single message: _[Do not go on the internet DO NOT CHECK YOUR EMAILS DO NOT WATCH ANY TV just go home and wait for us there, please, trust me]_ , and Porthos had known, then, that it was bad.

They'd watched it with Constance and d'Artagnan bookending them on the couch, later that night, after their friends had calmly and carefully described it to them first. 

They still should never have watched it. 

There had been a three-frame-long shot of six American soldiers sitting in a row in a cell--or, at least, six men in desert fatigues. It was hard to tell with the low quality.

But the sixth person had longer hair than everyone else, and the dark shadow of a beard the way only a civilian could, and held himself impeccably straight, even handcuffed to the people on either side of him.

Porthos will never forget Aramis' low moan of utter terror when that shot had come on the screen, and it's that sound and those blurry few milliseconds of Athos' face that have had Porthos waking up in cold sweats for days now. Aramis holds him through it, strokes his back and hair almost mechanically, and keeps Porthos close until he falls back asleep in Aramis' arms.

Aramis hasn't gone to work in a week; they've passed the art classes he teaches at the center off to Constance. He moves around the apartment in a daze, from bed to couch to kitchen island and back to the bed. 

He hasn't stepped into the studio in a week, now, either, and Porthos doesn't know what to do. Aramis has the gallery show in five days, and he refuses, point-blank, to show any of his old sketches. 

_That's Athos,_ he says, whenever Porthos gently tries to suggest it, just so there'll be something. _They're ours. I can't._

But he can't make anything new, either. He tried, the first few days--and Porthos doesn't know what quite happened, because Aramis won't say--but whatever it was, he just doesn't try anymore.

He's drifting. He's not sleeping, he barely eats, and Porthos is exhausted enough trying to make _himself_ sleep and eat and get to work so they can pay their fucking rent without Athos there, to hold Aramis' hand through every single action of living. Constance and d'Artagnan come over and cook and fill the apartment with living bodies, but Porthos will only be able to accept that help for so long before his own shame makes him reject it.

He doesn't know what to _do._

It's ten in the morning on the nineteenth when his phone rings. Porthos and Aramis are lying in bed, neither of them expected at the center that day, and Porthos just reaches blindly for his phone. It's a number he vaguely recognizes, and he lifts it to his ear. "Duvallon."

_"Porthos? Hello, it's Ninon. Did I wake you?"_

Aramis rolls over at that, frowning at Porthos, and Porthos frowns right back. He's not really sure a phone call from Athos' lawyer is a good thing. "No, we, uh. We don't sleep too much these days," he admits. He's too sleep-deprived to lie about it.

_"I'm sorry."_ She sounds stressed, too; Ninon's not only Athos' lawyer, but his friend, and Porthos knows the two of them have been close for a long time. _"If it's a bad time, I understand, but I was hoping I might be able to see you two today."_

Aramis is getting paler by the second, and Porthos reaches out to draw him closer, holding him tight. "Have you--" His voice threatens breaking, and Porthos closes his mouth and swallows. "Have you heard something new, or--?"

_"No,"_ she says hurriedly. _"No, not that. This is..."_ She trails off, makes a _hrmph_ sort of sound, then starts over. _"Ever since I started handling his legal affairs, Athos and I have had a few standing worst-case scenario procedures,"_ Ninon says, her voice careful, gentle. _"We're in the middle of one of them."_

Porthos blows out his breath, and Aramis lets out a humorless laugh. "You don't even know," Porthos sighs, pressing a soft kiss to Aramis' hair.

_"I can't even begin to imagine it, Porthos."_ Ninon's a kind person; it's one of the reasons Porthos has never even thought to be jealous of her and Athos' closeness. _"Athos asked me to call you two down here if he were ever listed as MIA for more than ten days. There were a few things he wanted me to go over with you."_

It's so very, very Athos. Contingency plans, responsibilities, making sure everything's covered.

"We can be there in an hour," Aramis says, lifting his head toward the phone. His face is set.

Porthos swallows and nods to him. "Yeah, Ninon, we'll be there."

_"No rush. I'll see you soon."_

They lie there for another long few minutes. Aramis is silent, and Porthos is trying to work up the courage to move.

"What?" Aramis murmurs finally, curling into Porthos, and Porthos takes a deep breath.

"Looking at--at his will, or whatever." Porthos feels sick. "It--y'know, it's gonna make it real."

"I know." Aramis shifts until he's the one pulling Porthos close, and Porthos rests his face against Aramis' chest. "I know, love."

Porthos feels tears threatening and he fucking hates it. "I'm _scared,_ Aramis," he says finally, his voice barely loud enough to be heard, and Aramis kisses the top of his head.

"I am, too." Aramis' voice, like it has been for the past few days, is just barely emoting, like he's having to force feelings through a fog.

Porthos lifts his head and looks at Aramis, really looks. His dark eyes are blurry, bloodshot, and he hasn't touched his razor in two weeks. Porthos' own beard is probably a mess, too, but at least he cleans up a little bit to go to work. Aramis hasn't left the apartment in days, and he looks it.

"When was the last time you slept, babe?" Porthos asks softly, cupping Aramis' cheek in his hand.

Aramis turns his face into Porthos' touch. "Maybe yesterday," Aramis says. He sounds so leaden, weighed down with so much--too much. "There are a few hours I lost track of while you were at work, I think I passed out on the couch."

Porthos' stomach churns, but he takes a deep breath and smiles anyway. For Aramis. "Okay," he says, not really capable of anything else, it feels. "Want to get dressed?"

Aramis sighs. "No, but we might as well."

That's sort of how Aramis is taking everything, these days.

The subway ride uptown is long enough for Porthos to start imagining the worst. Aramis holds onto Porthos as Porthos holds onto the overhead rail, and with one arm around Aramis' shoulders, it's easy for Porthos to worry about how much thinner he feels, about how little he sleeps these days--and what if Athos doesn't come back? What's that going to do to Aramis? What's it going to do to Porthos, trying to take care of them both?

_Athos, I hope you really did prepare for everything,_ Porthos thinks as they get off, as they trudge through the slush to the elegant building that houses De Larroque Law. 

Ninon's office has tall windows that look out onto the street, and the place is warmer and more welcoming than any law office Porthos has ever been in. It's a calculated effort on Ninon's part; she specializes in wills and trusts, doing most of her work _pro bono_ for single mothers and low-income families, trying to make sure they don't lose what little they've managed to get--Athos is an outlier among her clients, really. Porthos is grateful she makes her career out of explaining difficult law and money things to people who've never had to encounter either before, because he grew up poorer than dirt and Aramis' family was never wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, and it means she's very professional about explaining things to _them._

Ninon greets them each with a kiss on the cheek, and Porthos' heart lifts when Aramis comes back to himself enough to take her hand and kiss it. She rolls her eyes at him, as usual, and Aramis' ghost of a smile makes Porthos feel even better. She shows them into her private office and closes the door, and Porthos is glad there's a couch so he and Aramis can sit together. 

"Thanks for coming," Ninon says as she settles in the chair opposite them--not on the other side of the desk, but just beside the couch. It makes this feel less like something to dread. She smiles at the two of them, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Porthos feels a little better, knowing that Ninon's hurting about Athos, too. He feels like shit about it almost as soon as he does, but he can't quite bring himself to be guilty. 

"You haven't slept at all, have you?" Ninon asks Aramis very directly, cutting across the usual requisite polite small talk. 

"No," Aramis says, pulling his feet up onto the couch and curling into Porthos' side. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, and Porthos puts an arm around him. "Can we get on with this?"

Ninon smiles sadly at the both of them, and flips open the embossed folder in her lap. "Obviously, legally, 'missing in action' doesn't mean much," she says as she thumbs through the pages. "But Athos wanted me to prepare you both, a little, before anything actually happened."

Porthos has been imagining the worst for so long now that it only takes that little sentence to start it all flooding back. "Are his parents going to take everything?" he asks heavily, and Ninon looks sharply up at him.

"Why would you think that?"

Aramis shrugs. His hand rubs gently back and forth over the small of Porthos' back. "Well, they hate us. And since there are three of us, we can't get married, we can't get any legal partner benefits...we just assumed, really."

Ninon stares at them--then, miraculously, smiles. "No," she says softly. "No, Athos isn't going to let that happen." 

The ball of ice in Porthos' chest thaws a bit. "Really?"

"Really," Ninon says firmly. "He and I have had a lot of time to get his money away from the family and tie it up nice and safe."

It's already too much for Porthos to process. "So--" He rests his chin on Aramis' hair, drawing strength from his warmth "What exactly are you _preparing_ us for today, then, if you're not telling us how his family's gonna ruin us?"

Ninon pulls a few sheets of paper out of the folder and closes it, setting them on top. "How much do you two know about his finances?"

Aramis' laugh is hollow. "He hates to talk about it. We know he's got family money, and that's about it."

Ninon lets out an irritated breath and rubs at the bridge of her nose. "Athos, you secretive jackass," she mutters under her breath, and Porthos nearly laughs out loud. Yes. He is that.

"All right," Ninon says crisply, lifting her head. "I think we maybe just need to jump right in."

She takes the top sheet of paper and passes it over to them. "This is Athos' most recent financial overview. He has his trust fund, his own investments, his benefits from the Army, what little salary he allows Constance to give him for working at the youth center, and he rents out the apartment he used to have uptown."

"He _owns_ that?" Aramis asks incredulously, taking the paper. 

Porthos is still frowning at Ninon, finding it hard to switch gears from the heart-stopping dread he'd had a minute earlier, when Aramis literally chokes on his own breath and drops the paper like it's on fire.

"What?" Porthos demands, grabbing it up. "What's wrong?"

"Holy _shit,_ " Aramis wheezes. _"Fuck,_ Ninon, are you _joking?"_

Porthos stares down at the paper, trying to understand Aramis' shock, but it takes a minute for his brain to catch up with what he's seeing. He has to read it twice before he can make any sense of it. This just--it can't be right.

He's never seen that many digits after a dollar sign in his _life._

He looks up at Aramis, unable to believe it, and Aramis just looks at him with his mouth open. 

_Athos, why on God's green earth didn't you tell us you were a millionaire?_

"I can't believe he's never told you this," Ninon says, looking between their stunned faces. "He didn't tell you anything?"

"He doesn't--he hates that he didn't earn any of it," Porthos says weakly, staring down at the numbers like they're going to rearrange themselves. "He doesn't like to use it, he just says--well, shit, he doesn't say anything about it, he just dips into it for rent and that's it."

"Oh, my God," Aramis says. His voice is hovering on the edge of hysteria. "Oh, my _God,_ if they say that he's dead, what the fuck is going to happen to all this money?"

"He's left instructions for some of it," Ninon says, taking up two other pieces of paper and passing them over. "He has some standing donations set up that he'd like to continue. There's an annual fund set up to go to the youth center--Athos requests anonymously, though he says you two are welcome to take credit for it if you like--and he's set aside a chunk for d'Artagnan's graduate studies in education."

Aramis snorts out a cross between a laugh and a sob. "He'll never take it." D'Artagnan is one of the sweetest kids Porthos has ever met, but he's also incredibly proud. 

Ninon smiles a little wickedly. "Athos has left a very specific provision in his will to--well, it's not very legal-sounding, but shame him, really, into taking it."

"Of course he has." Porthos is lightheaded. "Of course he fucking has."

Ninon pauses, then, and she gives them both a careful smile. "And as for the rest," Ninon says, as gently as it seems she can, "he and I have very carefully ensured that, in the event of his death, his family has absolutely no claim on it, they will not be able to touch it in any way--and every cent of it will go to the two of you."

Porthos stares at her.

What?

No.

_Really?_

Aramis finally lets loose the peal of hysterical laughter he's been holding back. He's crying, Porthos can see, and Porthos is too shell-shocked to comfort him at all. "No way," Aramis says, staring down at the papers in his hands. "No, no, this can't be ours, this _can't_ be ours, what will we even do with it?"

"He asks," Ninon says, referring to the last piece of paper--and Porthos can see the flourish of Athos' signature at the bottom of it, it has to be his will _(oh, fuck, oh, Athos),_ "that you use it to keep the loft, so Aramis, you can still have your studio, and Porthos, the windows that you love. But that's all he specifies."

Aramis lets out another laugh that hiccups into a sob, and Porthos drops his head into his hands. Holy shit. Holy _shit._

"Why?" is all he can say, his voice cracking. "Why would he give us all this?" 

Porthos has never had much more than the clothes on his back. Aramis grew up with a big family and underemployed parents. They've never had much, either of them, but they don't need much. This much money makes his head spin--and Athos knows that it would, he knows this much money would scare Porthos shitless instead of making him feel safe. _Why?_

"You should probably let him tell you that," Ninon says softly, and Porthos hears her open the folder again. He lifts his head, and he watches her pull a slim plastic sleeve from the back of the folder. 

"He left us a fucking tape," Aramis says. His voice is thick with tears. "If he makes it back alive, I'm going to kill him myself."

Porthos brushes the back of his hand over his eyes and reaches out to take the disc from Ninon. "When did he make this?"

"The week before he left for Afghanistan." Ninon glances down at the folder, and for the first time, her cool, professional mask trembles. 

Aramis reaches across the space between them and covers her hand with his. Ninon flashes him a shaky smile, and her eyes are filling with tears, as well.

"Of course," she says, her voice rasping slightly, "I'm sure they'll find him, and he'll be fine, and I'll have sprung all of this on you for nothing."

Right. Right. He's not dead yet. They don't know he's dead yet. Athos will come home and deal with all his amazing wonderful _terrifying_ money by himself, and Porthos will never have to touch any of it.

"I have a DVD player here, if you'd like to watch it now," Ninon offers. "Or if I've thrown quite enough at you for one day, feel free to take it with you. Athos made it for the two of you, it's yours."

Porthos doesn't even have to look at Aramis to know the answer to that. "I think we just need to go home."

"Yes," Aramis says.

Ninon's eyes are soft with understanding, and she smiles and lets them go.

\- - -

It feels like there's a mile of space between the two of them and the laptop on the coffee table. Porthos can't bring himself to open the disc drive and put Athos' tape in. 

It'll make it too real, too...final. It'll make it seem like Athos is really gone for good, instead of just--just missing, like he is now.

But he's been missing for ten days, and that's so long, _too_ long, Porthos has never known anyone to come back from that--

"I don't know if I can watch this," he says, and Aramis' hand curls around his knee.

"We don't have to," Aramis says, and Porthos glances over at him. Aramis looks just as exhausted and worried as he has for the last few days--but there's a little bit of light in his eyes. He bites his lip, glances down at the disc between them, and Porthos knows there's something he's not say.

He brushes his fingers through Aramis' hair, a silent question on his face, and Aramis sighs.

"I just want to see his face," he says finally, sounding so _guilty_ that Porthos abruptly feels like shit. He's scared. He doesn't want this to be real. But it _is_ fucking real, and he needs to just deal with that--and maybe this'll comfort them both, a little.

So he puts the disc in and pulls Aramis against his chest, and they wait. 

When the video starts, Porthos catches his breath, and he hears Aramis suck in a sob. 

He always, always forgets how gorgeous Athos is.

In the video, Athos is sitting on their bed, his face lit by afternoon light, and he's just in a t-shirt, his pajama pants--his hair's a little tousled, and there's a deep frown cut into his forehead, and Porthos wonders how long he lay in bed thinking about this, planning for his own death, before he sat up and dragged his laptop over to make this.

Athos' frown eases a bit as he looks into the camera, and he smiles faintly. Porthos loves him so much it makes his chest hurt. "Hi," Athos says. "If you're both watching this, Ninon gave it to you, so you know all about it now." He grimaces, runs a hand through his hair, and Porthos can barely breathe, seeing him again.

He feels Aramis shaking against him, and Porthos holds him tighter.

Athos sighs and looks back at the camera, his smile tugging up at one side. "I know you probably want to kill me right now," he says, and he does look a little guilty. "I'm sorry. I know that I should have told you about all this a long time ago, but--" He breaks off, sighing, and this is a thousand times worse than Porthos could have imagined. This is just Athos _talking_ to them, it isn't the dry, formal instructions that it could have been. Porthos maybe could have handled that.

"You both know how I feel about my family's money," Athos sighs. "I've tried to do good things with it, but I suppose it never felt--well, real, until I thought about what might happen to it, if something happened to me. I'm sorry for springing this on you when I'm not there to help--" He breaks off, then, frowning, and then something passes over his face--something sad. "And I suppose," he says, more softly, "that if you're watching this, then I'm not going to be."

"Fuck," Aramis whispers, his voice sounding choked, and Porthos kisses his hair, rubs his arms, tries, _tries_ to be the strong one. 

Athos looks guilty, sad, and if he were here, Porthos would kiss the lines in his forehead until they smoothed, until he was smiling again. "If you're both furious with me," he goes on, "asking why I did this--" And Porthos feels a little shock at that, and has to smile, almost, because Athos knows him so well--

And then Athos looks back at the camera, right, _right_ at them, and his face is sad and serious and gentle in a way that it almost never is. "I want you both to have lives so incredibly happy that you'll never believe they're real," he says softly. "And I know that being with me, it's just...it's always made more tension, given us all one other thing to worry about."

"No," Porthos says out loud--can't help it. Athos _always_ thinks that, and he's always wrong, they've never regretted it, and Aramis lets out a despairing laugh in his arms, because Porthos is fucking correcting a tape, because Porthos can never let Athos say those things and get away with it.

But Athos goes on, determined now. "So now, I can't be there to make sure you never have to worry about being busy, being happy, being loved--" He looks right at them again, set. "But this is something I can make sure you never have to worry about. I want you never to have to worry about keeping a roof over your head, keeping yourselves fed, staying together. If losing me can do one good thing, I want it to be that."

And it settles in on Porthos, then--the magnitude of what Athos is trying to give them. This, to Athos, is the most he can do for them. 

Porthos is gonna fucking cry. 

Athos pushes his hand through his hair again, staring off to the side now, his eyes distant. "I'm not going to tell you what do with it all," he says, imagining it, clearly. "Do whatever you want, just. Take care of yourselves." He stops, takes a deep breath, and looks down, then, like it's finally hitting him that he's saying all this. 

"Mary, mother of mercy, please do not do this to us," Aramis whispers, his hand wrapping around Porthos' and squeezing, hard. "Please do not take this man away from us, _please._ "

Athos looks back up at the camera, and there's a shine to his eyes that breaks Porthos in two. "If I can ask one thing of you two, if I'm gone..." His voice is rough, and he swallows, sets his jaw. Porthos is not ready to hear whatever this is.

Then Athos looks back up, and he smiles, just a little. "Get married," he says, and Aramis' breath catches, and Porthos' chest _aches._ "Have the huge, lavish, ridiculous wedding that we never could. Tell the whole world how much you love each other, how much you fought to be together."

Get married. Get _fucking_ married, because the three of them couldn't but two of them could. 

Of course Athos would say that. Of course Athos, who always thinks he's disposable, would think of that as the silver lining. 

It's a gift and it's fucking heartbreaking.

"Remember that I love you," Athos says gently, and his eyes are full in the light, and if this is the last Porthos is ever going to see of him, at least he's smiling. "Remember that, but..." And impossibly, Athos' smile widens a little. 

"If I'm gone, forget about me," he says, and it takes Porthos back to when they met--when Athos was his lieutenant, and could give them orders like this. Never this gently, but all the same, it feels so painfully familiar. 

And Athos is still smiling, his eyes sad and his voice quiet. "Let me be a happy memory," he says, "and not a ghost that haunts you. Fill the loft with love, and art, and take care of each other. For me."

And then a door closes, offscreen, and Porthos feels an eerie disconnect at the sound of his own voice calling. "Athos!"

Aramis' voice joins in, lighter and more playful than Porthos has heard it since Athos left. "We got your favorite, love, come out and eat."

Athos looked up at the sound of their voices, and his whole face changes. His smile brightens, all the lines in his face easing, and he's always more guarded when he knows the two of them are watching, but alone--

For just a minute, it's there, preserved on tape forever, the way his face lights up for the two of them. 

"I'll be right there," he calls, then looks back down at the camera. "I have to go," he says, and his smile turns rueful. "I hope you never have to see this," he says. "I hope I come home and throw this into the Hudson. But if I don't--I love you. I always will."

And then he ends the tape, and that's all. 

Porthos' vision blurs, and he can't breathe, and it's only when Aramis turns and pulls him into his arms that Porthos realizes he's crying harder than he ever has in his life.

He can't stop, as much as he wants to, as much as he always wants-- _needs_ , needs to be the one who's there to comfort everyone else. He can't. He can't stop crying, he can't breathe, he can't get the picture of Athos smiling gently out of his head, he can't do this without him, he misses him so much.

Aramis' voice is a line tethering him to reality--and as Porthos slowly surfaces from his drowning rush of grief, he realizes Aramis is praying, his words brushing hot against the back of Porthos' neck.

_Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo..._

Porthos remembers that his mother prayed, that God was in everything, with her--and all of his foster parents took him to church; he's always known he was supposed to believe. And he does, sort of, but he's never believed quite the way he does when Aramis is holding him, when Aramis is praying. _Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte._

He whispers it over and over, as he rocks back and forth with Porthos in his arms, and Aramis' belief shines through in his words, as desperate as he sounds, as the words fall over each other and tangle in his mouth.

"I love you," Porthos whispers finally, manages to get out around the tears. 

"I love you," Aramis says back, his voice shaky but strong. "I will always love you, we will always have each other, no matter what, do you hear me, Porthos?"

He sounds like he's back--like somehow, this awful thing that has shattered Porthos into bits has pulled Aramis together, and Porthos looks up, in awe, into Aramis' eyes.

Aramis' eyes are red and tears have dried on his face, but he looks _present_ in a way that he hasn't in days. 

"I love you," he says again, stroking his thumbs over Porthos' cheeks, and he uses the cuff of his sleeve to clean Porthos' face of the disgusting mess that uncontrollable crying leaves, tears, snot, and all.

"I love you." It's all Porthos can say. He's too broken to summon up any other feelings. He loves Aramis, and he loves Athos and misses Athos and needs Athos back, and he's fucking wrecked.

"I'm sorry I've been gone," Aramis says, his face shadowing with guilt, with grief. "I'm sorry, Porthos, but I'm back, I'm here now."

Porthos sits up, wraps his arms around Aramis, too, and they hold each other. 

They're both here. They're both still here.

When his breathing has steadied and Aramis has stopped trembling, Porthos draws back, manages a shaky smile. "That feels like the worst of it," he says quietly. "It can't get worse than that, can it?"

"I don't know," Aramis says, and when Porthos strokes his face, Aramis pushes his face into the touch. "I keep thinking I can't miss him more, I can't stand waiting anymore, that it's just going to break my heart completely." He closes his eyes, his dark eyelashes long on his face, and he sighs. "And then I keep on going, and it just keeps piling up. I don't know if anything will ever make it stop."

Porthos knows exactly what he means, and he lets his fingers trace over Aramis' cheeks, brow, temples. 

"I think," he says finally, "that we need to eat something."

Aramis smiles slowly, and even with his face heavy with exhaustion, it's Porthos' favorite sight in the whole world. "Yeah," he agrees.

So they eat, and then when they finish, and Porthos' legs feel steady enough to stand on, he pulls Aramis into the shower. Porthos' own mornings have been so rushed, since it's been so hard to drag himself out of bed to face another grinding, agonizing day, and he genuinely cannot remember the last time Aramis made himself shower.

They feel closer, in the shower, than they have in weeks, and not just because they're pressed together, body to body. Porthos washes Aramis' hair, rubbing his fingertips against Aramis' scalp and combing his conditioner through, and the contented sigh Aramis lets out is the first one Porthos has heard since Athos left. In turn, Aramis soaps up Porthos' whole body, touching him with careful reverence, and it's like they're remembering how they work. 

When they've rinsed off, Porthos pulls Aramis close and kisses him, long and gentle, until the water starts to run cold. It is, Porthos realizes slowly, the first kiss that's more than just a goodnight or goodbye brush, since Athos went missing.

It feels like they're restarting.

They don't have sex. They haven't since the day Treville brought the news--every single fucking thing has just been too much, and Porthos doesn't think either of them are in a stable enough mental place for it. But they lie close and hold each other, and trade a few soft, achingly sweet kisses. Porthos is still too worried to sleep--Athos' goodbye will probably only be fresh ammunition for the fucking night terrors, getting to imagine Athos' smiling face surrounded by a haze of death--so he just lies still and listens to Aramis breathe.

Porthos still isn't asleep when Aramis pulls gently away and slips from the bed. 

He's fucking scared as hell for a split second--until he hears Aramis' footsteps go down the hall to the studio. Then he is completely, utterly _relieved._

There's the usual clattering, the sounds of wood clunking on the floor, and Porthos drifts to the sounds of Aramis in the studio--shifting wood, tools moving on the floor, the occasional high whirr of a screwdriver. They spent so long trying to get him the proper studio that he needs, Porthos thinks, and his mind goes back to Athos, how Athos had spent so long tracking down apartments until they found this one, with the perfect studio space for Aramis, and the high windows, all the sunlight, that Porthos loves himself...

He has no idea how much later it is when he hears Aramis' careful step return, giving him a moment's warning before the bed dips. Porthos rolls over in bed to see him, and he reaches out to have Aramis' fingers tangle in his. Silhouetted by the light in the doorway, it's easy to see how Aramis' shoulders slump, the weary curve of his shoulders.

"Yeah, babe?" Porthos says quietly, sitting up.

"Will you help me stretch a few canvases?" Aramis asks, and Porthos smiles at him.

Aramis has arranged four huge canvas frames in a square that takes up the whole floor. Porthos helps him stretch and staple each one, and the minute they've placed them carefully back in their square, Aramis goes for his paints. There's a slightly _possessed_ look on his face, his eyes distant and haunted, and as uncomfortable as that look makes Porthos, he's so so _so_ fucking glad that Aramis is exorcising it with his art again.

Porthos grabs the throw blanket and egg chair that live in the corner of the studio, for days when Aramis just tucks himself up with a sketchbook, and drags them over to where he can stay in Aramis' line of sight. He curls up, drags the blanket over himself, and watches Aramis throw black and purple paint into his palette. 

He falls asleep like that, eventually, but Aramis never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself cry writing this chapter so I've got tissues here for anyone who might need them. As always, [here if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2008\. Athos visits his family for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten so terrible at responding to comments, it's been a bad few anxiety/depression days but let me just tell you guys, the comments on that chapter were SO WONDERFUL, you are all so sweet and kind and I really really want to go back through and thank you all personally, so I'm hoping I'll get to it soon!
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for parental homophobia and implied references to PTSD and parent-to-child emotional and physical abuse, though nothing graphically described.

_December 21, 2008_

Of course, the only thing that can put a damper on their first week in the apartment is Athos' family.

It's Monday morning, and Porthos and Athos lie propped against the headboard, kissing languidly. Aramis lounges on his stomach at the foot of the bed, sketching them with heat in his eyes and his hips shifting down against the mattress--and Porthos knows he's going to have to take care of that, in a minute--when Athos' phone rings.

Or, more accurately, when the theme from _Psycho_ shrills from the nightstand, and Athos breaks away from Porthos with a curse. "What the fuck does he want? It's ten in the morning."

Aramis grimaces. "You should answer it."

"Yeah, the moment's been killed anyway," Porthos says, shifting slightly so Athos can push himself up on Porthos' chest and lunge for his phone.

When the phone's in his hand, Athos stares down at it, letting the violins shriek for a moment more. Then a cool, implacable mask slides over his face, and he lifts the phone to his ear. "Good morning, General." Even his voice has totally changed from a moment before. 

Once, when he was drunker than Porthos had ever seen him and safe in the cage of Aramis' arms, Athos confessed he'd never called the General _Father_ in his entire life.

Porthos can believe it.

_"Olivier. Hope I didn't wake you."_

The General's heavy baritone is loud enough for both Porthos and Aramis to hear in the silence of their bedroom--and the mocking, as well.

Aramis rolls his eyes (though they've never met, Aramis hates Athos' family with a bitter passion) as Athos lifts his gaze imploringly to the ceiling. "As you know, sir," he responds, his voice cultured and polite, "it's very hard to train a body out of miltary rising. I think you can safely call and reach me at any point after sunrise." It's not a lie. The three of them, for all that they've been up to all hours fucking each other senseless the past few days, invariably rise when reveille would have been called on base. (Porthos would dearly love to be _able_ to sleep in, but it's just not happening.)

 _"It's good to know there's something in you that still respects the service."_ Porthos doesn't like the General's tone, and Athos clearly likes it even less, from the way his eyes flatten and go cold. 

"All of me, sir," Athos says, his voice sharp like it hasn't been since Afghanistan. 

_"I'd like you to come up to the house this morning,"_ the General says, seemingly apropos of nothing. 

Athos grits his teeth, and he rests a hand on Porthos' chest, steadying himself. Porthos covers it with his own and tries to smile at him, but Athos is staring into the middle distance, his eyes distant. "Yes, sir," he says mechanically. "Has something happened?"

_"I've heard a disturbing rumor I need you to address for me, Olivier."_

Athos' hand closes convulsively on Porthos' chest. 

Aramis sits up sharply, and Porthos reaches out to Athos, holding him up. 

Athos' face is whiter than it was when he got _shot_ six years ago, and his eyes are blank and staring straight ahead. "Can I address it for you now, sir?" Athos says, clearly on autopilot. 

_"We'll discuss it face to face."_

"Yes, sir," Athos says, in that same rote, mechanical tone. "I'll be on my way shortly."

He never even thinks to argue, to question the demands made of him. It usually makes Porthos' blood boil, but today--today he's scared, and he knows why Athos doesn't want to fight it.

 _"I'll expect you."_ It has all the crispness of a _dismissed_ that isn't spoken, and the phone drops from Athos' nerveless hand to the bedsheets as the call goes dark.

"Athos," Porthos says quietly, trying to calm him, "it could be anything."

"He knows." Athos' voice is quiet and tight, the forced calm he'd get in battle, and Porthos can feel him shaking. "He knows, someone told him, he knows about us."

"He doesn't know," Aramis says in his most reasonable tone of voice. He crawls up the bed to wrap his arms around Athos and pull him close. "What could he know? How? No one knows but Treville and Constance, and they would never, Athos."

"You don't know him." Athos is panicking. It's very quiet, very subdued, but Porthos can see the wide-eyed shell shock behind the ice in his blue eyes. "You don't know him. Someone told him we're living together now, and I didn't re-up, that would be all he needs."

"That's probably what he called about," Porthos says with a conviction he doesn't quite feel, reaching up to stroke Athos' hair back from his face. "Babe, he could just be calling because you didn't re-up, that's it."

Athos' eyes flick desperately to Porthos, and he sinks a little bit back into Aramis' hold.

Encouraged, Porthos goes on. "You know he wants you to go back on active duty," he reminds him. "He probably found out you got your discharge and wants to yell at you about that. How could he know about us?"

Athos nods slowly, his eyes drifting away over Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos lets him go. Athos always comes back on his own; it's not as terrifying for Porthos to let him drift off as it is when it's Aramis, or--Porthos guesses, from the way the other two react sometimes--Porthos himself.

They've all lived through different hells. There are a lot of things that can send one of them, two of them, all three of them out of the here and now into something years past. Porthos and Aramis mostly only go back for things from the war--but it's different, for Athos, and Porthos knows now it's because all Athos' capacity for trauma got used up in his childhood.

Athos looks like a scared little kid, knowing he's stayed out too late and has to go home and get in trouble.

Aramis kisses Athos' hair, the back of his neck, running his palms over Athos' shoulders, back and forth. Porthos holds his face, brushing his thumbs over Athos' temples, and lets Athos just stare blankly at him until his gaze drifts back into focus.

"I have to tell him," Athos says, his voice very quiet, and Porthos and Aramis go still.

Aramis shifts to hold Athos against his side, so they all can be looking at each other, and his hand covers Porthos' on Athos' cheek. "You think now's the right time?"

Athos closes his eyes, and he looks so tired, he looks so much _older_ , and that's not fucking right, how old he looks at thirty, how much all the fucking hiding and lying and fear has worn him down.

"We fought this long," Athos says, "so we wouldn't have to hide anymore." He sounds rough, sad and tired and hoarse, and for fuck's sake, he was fine, he was _happy_ two minutes ago.

"From the Army," Porthos points out. "And we're done, we're free of that--nobody said you have to come out to your dad right this fucking second."

Athos' eyes drift open, and he gives Porthos one of his lopsided smiles. "But he's given me such a perfect opportunity, Porthos," he drawls, and that's it--he's made up his mind.

He's gonna do this, and all Porthos can do is be there to hold him up for it. He and Aramis share a glance, and Aramis wraps an arm around Athos' shoulders, hugs him close. "Do you want us to come, too?" Aramis says, his brown eyes very serious on Athos'.

Athos shakes his head instantly. "No. You two have never met any of my family, and God willing, you never will." He swallows, reaches up to push his hair back, and lets his hand rest on top of both of theirs. "I need to do this. I want to do this."

They hold his hand for a long, long time. And then they let him get up and go.

\- - -

It's fucking agony to wait. It's a long ride uptown to the family brownstone, and Porthos knows it'll be a long conversation, and then a long ride back.

Athos texts Aramis at four in the afternoon--he knows they won't have left the apartment, that they'll be sitting on the couch together, aimlessly sketching (Aramis) and trying to watch TV (Porthos), that he'll only have to text one of them.

Aramis lunges forward and snatches up his phone the second it buzzes. He reads it, and Porthos watches the deep, worried frown etch itself into his forehead. Aramis passes over the phone without comment, and Porthos reads, _[nearly back. please have drink poured?]_

"Shit," Porthos sighs, and pushes himself up to go to the liquor cabinet.

Aramis gets up to follow him. He slides onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, and he traces a finger over the grout in the tiles. He's slumped half-over, looking sadder than Porthos has seen him in a long time. 

Porthos brushes a hand through Aramis' rumpled curls as he passes behind the island, and Aramis drops his head to the counter with a groan. "I hate this," he says, his voice muffled. "He's miserable and there's absolutely nothing we can do."

"We just love him." Porthos takes down a glass and pours a double shot of whiskey into it, for Athos. Then he lifts the bottle and takes a swig for himself.

Aramis holds out his hand without lifting his head, and Porthos passes him the bottle. Aramis picks his head up just enough to drink it, then drops it back down with another loud groan. "I love him," Aramis mumbles against his own arm like a mantra.

"Good," Athos says from the doorway, and Porthos whirls to watch him kick the door shut and throw his keys on the table. "I just did a lot of things that would be irrelevant otherwise."

Aramis' head comes up sharply, and he half-rises off the bar stool. "Athos--?"

"In a minute." Athos looks like shit, his face heavy and his shoulders slumped, and Porthos' stomach drops. Athos claws off his coat and scarf, crosses the living room to them, takes the glass Porthos poured and throws it back in one gulp. Then he picks up the bottle and pours another. "Ice?"

He's very carefully not looking at either of them, so Porthos gives him the space and opens the freezer. When he drops two cubes into the glass, Athos glances up and smiles faintly at him. "Thank you," he says, and Porthos' heart breaks to see his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He reaches out, he can't help it, and Athos only shrinks a little bit under Porthos' hand on his shoulder. 

"Guessing it wasn't good, then," Porthos says quietly, and Athos closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Aramis comes around the side of the island, clearly not sure if he's supposed to touch or not, and Athos saves him the indecision by turning towards him. Aramis' smile turns sweet and relieved, and he wraps his arms around Athos and pulls him close.

They hold Athos between them for a moment, then Aramis kisses his hair and draws back a little. "Couch?" It feels like the safest place in the apartment, when they don't want to put bad memories into the bedroom.

Athos nods, and Aramis gently leads him to the couch in the living room. Porthos follows a bit behind, carrying the whiskey bottle just in case, and sinks down onto the chair beside the couch. Athos sits down heavily on the far end, and his ice cubes clink in the glass. He swirls his whiskey for a minute, staring at the amber liquid, and he doesn't say anything. It's only when Aramis sits down beside him that Athos seems to find the words to speak.

"I got there," Athos says, "and he took me straight up to his study. I think my mother was in the living room, but I never saw her."

"Which rumor had he heard?" Aramis asks very quietly.

Athos rubs at the bridge of his nose and takes a sip of whiskey. "That I'd decided not to re-up for good, and that I'd shacked up with two men who'd served under my command."

Porthos swallows down a surge of bile. "Shacked up?" _Shacked up,_ when they'd never be able to get married so what the fuck are they _supposed_ to do--

Athos shakes his head. "My words, not his. I believe his words were 'moved into an apartment with two subordinate servicemen,' delivered with the most revolting condescension you could imagine." Athos grimaces. "Because of course if I were to move in with anyone I'd served with, he'd want them to be two ranks above me."

"How did he find out?" Aramis asks, still quiet, and he rests his hand on Athos' thigh.

Athos shrugs one shoulder. It's obvious how much he's trying not to let this affect him. "Small talk with another Reserves captain. Bartis, I think. She said something about how he must be glad that I'm home for good. Then he pulled some strings, found out the permanent address I'd had them send my discharge papers to. I assume it wasn't difficult for him to find out the two of you lived here, too."

His voice is peculiarly flat, emotionless in a way that makes Porthos worry. Athos is looking steadily into his glass, nowhere else, but his free hand covers Aramis' tightly. 

"He wanted an explanation," Athos goes on, tonelessly. "I told him I'd always be grateful to the Army, but I didn't think it was a place for me anymore." 

Porthos' heartbeat spikes, and he and Aramis share a look. Athos goes on, still without looking at either of them, still as dispassionately as if he were reading the weather. "To which he demanded, for God's sake what the hell kind of talk was that, and I let him get about a third of the way into the 'de la Feres are Army born and Army bred' speech--"

Athos takes a deep breath and another swig of whiskey. "--Before I interrupted him with _I'm gay._ "

Porthos realizes both he and Aramis are holding their breaths.

Athos shakes his head and takes another sip of his drink, holds it in his mouth to feel the burn before he finally swallows it. "I think," he says, "that's the first time I've truly shocked him in my whole life." He sighs. "But he didn't hit me, so I suppose it was good I stunned him into silence."

"Athos," Aramis says, his face shadowed with horror, and Athos waves the hand holding his glass slightly, as if to tell him not to worry. He's never joked about his parents hitting him before, but--well, a lot of shit makes a hell of a lot more sense, if they had.

Athos closes his eyes, and the lines in his forehead are so deep. He looks like he's in pain, he looks so _tired._ "So while he was too shocked to talk, I told him about us. I went over the last eight years, I told him we'd been waiting out our terms of service, I told him that I loved you both and--" A faint smile creases his face, a painful glimmer of hope in his despair. "--That we were living together now, and then--" He takes a deep breath, and the cubes clink in the glass as his hands shake, just a little. "And then I said I wanted him and mother to come meet you both, as you're the most important people in the world to me, and he clearly already knows where we live." 

Porthos has no idea what to say. That's the bravest thing Athos has ever done--and the man has two Purple Hearts, for fuck's sake--but he also can tell, from Athos' entire bearing, that it went terribly, so he doesn't want to say _good for you_ because it's not, clearly, is it?

Athos sighs heavily and throws back the rest of his whiskey. "And then," he goes on, carefully setting his empty glass on the coffee table, "when I'd finished, I listened as he told me how I'd spent eight years lying to the service, and that I was a disgrace and I'd betrayed our family history, and the uniform, and the country of my birth, and that I had no right to wear this ring on my finger."

He rattles it all off so calmly, so dispassionately, but his eyes are wet, and his thumb traces restlessly over the inside band of his West Point ring. Aramis takes Athos' hand fully in his before he can start twisting it and rubbing his skin raw, and Aramis' eyes are full of tears.

"You earned that ring," Porthos says. His heart's breaking, and he doesn't know what to say, but he does know he can't let Athos believe that. "You know he's wrong."

"I know," Athos says, his voice low and flat. "Which is why I kept my mouth shut and didn't say a word as he went on about how if I was going to throw away my entire career for a fling, he wasn't going to let me break my mother's heart with it, and I wasn't to say a word to her. He didn't want her to get the wrong idea."

Aramis' jaw ticks, and he puts his other arm around Athos. Aramis will never, ever forgive Athos' father for this, Porthos knows. 

Porthos is too far away. So he gets up and drops onto the floor beside the couch, pressing against Athos' legs and looking up at him.

Athos is staring at his own knees, and doesn't look at either of them. His blue eyes are unreadable in a way they haven't been since Afghanistan. "To which I replied," he says, "that if he was going to call the two people I have actively chosen to be with, every day of my life, for the past eight years, a _fling_ , then I wouldn't want him to say a word to her, either." One corner of his mouth twitches up, but there's absolutely no humor in his face. "I wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea."

Porthos and Aramis share a look, and Porthos' chest warms, even as it tightens with unhappiness. Athos is right. They've chosen this. Every day of their lives, when it would just be so much easier to let things go--they choose this. They've carried around secrets and hidden their feelings and been pushed almost to breaking for eight years, because they choose this, they choose each other.

For his father to call it a _fling--_

Jesus, it hurts.

"I'm so sorry, my love," Aramis murmurs, squeezing his hand, and Porthos rests a hand on his leg, hoping Athos can draw on some of his strength.

Athos sighs and finally lets his eyes fall shut. "And I was expecting it, too," he says, almost like a plea. "I _knew_ he was going to say it, there wasn't a single word of the conversation that was a surprise--but it made me sick."

"Of course it would," Porthos says. "Babe, of course it would." Athos nods miserably, and lets himself fall into Aramis, just a little.

Aramis rests his cheek on Athos' hair, and for all that his eyes are wet, they blaze with barely-contained anger. "I hope you left, then," Aramis says. "I hope you got up and left him alone with his awful, cold heart."

But Athos laughs one of his sarcastic barks of not-laughter, a humorless, half-manic sound that makes Porthos' heart twist every time he hears it, and right then, Porthos knows it is in fact much worse than what they think. 

"If you think that was the end, you don't know him at all, Aramis," Athos says. He shakes his head, and he reaches down to cover Porthos' hand with his. Porthos turns his hand palm-up and grips Athos' tightly. Athos' eyes flicker open, bright blue dulled with pain, staring at nothing, and Porthos squeezes his hand.

"What did he do?" Porthos asks, as steadily as he can, and at last, Athos looks up and meets his eyes.

"Oh, he disowned me," he says lightly. "Told me as long as I was breaking every oath I'd ever sworn to upheld, I was no longer welcome in his home or his family, and that was that."

Porthos stares at him. Aramis' mouth hangs open.

Athos' mouth curves into another dull, empty smile. "I should have seen that coming, too," he says, and on the last word, his voice finally cracks.

He swallows, grits his teeth, and that's when the tears he's been fighting spill over at last. "Fuck," Athos grinds out, curling into himself and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, and Aramis and Porthos move.

"Oh, Athos," Aramis murmurs, pulling him closer, and Porthos slides up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around the both of them as Athos lets himself feel his emotions at last. He's shaking, rocking furiously back and forth, whispering obscenities at his father, his mother, his grandfather and great-grandfather and all the years back that trapped him like this--

"I hate them," Athos hisses through his teeth, his voice shattered. "I have always fucking hated them, I should be glad, I shouldn't _care._ "

"Of course you care," Aramis says, stroking his hair. His eyes are still full of angry tears, but you'd never tell hearing his voice. He's so gentle. "Darling, of course you do. They've made you fight for their love for years, and now they've just decided to take it away, and there's nothing you can do, and it must hurt worse than anything." 

Athos sobs, just once, an awful choking sound that brings tears to Porthos' eyes, and Aramis kisses his hair again and pulls Athos close.

"You can be upset," Aramis whispers. "It's all right to be upset, Athos, it doesn't make you weak and it doesn't mean they've broken you. We're still here. We're here for you. We love you."

"You're our family," Porthos says, means it more than he's meant anything in his life, and Athos sucks in a breath like Porthos slapped him.

Nobody's ever told him that, Porthos realizes then.

Athos holds his breath, fighting, clinging to them both, then dissolves into broken, gasping sobs. 

Porthos holds him and Aramis both tight against his chest, and they let Athos grieve. They're his family now, Porthos knows, and he makes a silent vow then and there that they will do better by Athos than his first one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [you know where to find me!](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bagram, Afghanistan. Christmas, 2001.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wraps up their story in Afghanistan. Thank you all again, so much, for the utterly amazing feedback on the last few chapters--I want to respond to every single comment, and I still may have time! It's been a difficult few weeks, with very little writing time. (In that vein, I'd like to apologize in advance for any factual inaccuracies in this chapter about the base where they are--I did the best research I could these past few weeks, but eventually had to settle for either delaying the chapter a few more weeks or having to settle for "not glaringly implausible," which does not sit very well with me but felt like the lesser of two weevils.)
> 
> WARNINGS in this chapter for military-typical casual homophobia (not lingered upon) and a short scene with canon-typical levels of violence.

_apparently December 22, 2001_  
 _Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan_

Porthos hasn't slept well since they saw Aramis at the field hospital a few days ago. Every time he closes his eyes, it's all Aramis and de la Fere and this crushing sense of fear and tension and _want_ that wakes him up ready to blow. The two times he's had a private shower and enough time to take care of himself, it takes barely a minute each time, and no matter how hard he tries to think of Aramis and only Aramis, de la Fere's blue eyes keep flashing into his head right when he's--

 _Fuck shit fuck fuck goddamn fucking fuck,_ Porthos mouths silently, thumping his head against the wall as he rinses his come down the drain. This can't go on. This cannot fucking go on. He has no idea what de la Fere wants, what he thinks about Porthos and Aramis, except for a few wordless looks that could mean anything and the way he has avoided Porthos with single-minded efficiency since they got back from the field hospital.

It isn't the lowest Porthos has ever been, but it's close. He's hopeless, fucking helplessly in love with two people he, a) cannot be with, and b) _really fucking cannot be with._ It hurts bad enough that he can't be with Aramis, who Porthos decided he'd spend the rest of his life with on their first day of boot camp, when Aramis looked into his eyes and smiled and Porthos' brain went _well, we're fucked._ He's still not sure if Aramis loving him back makes them more or less fucked, honestly. He and Aramis have tied themselves together and are ready to hang themselves with that rope--fine. But they can't expect de la Fere to do that, too. 

As much as he thinks de la Fere's sympathetic, Porthos can't count on that forever. The part of him that grew up rough, that's always looking out for himself and not sure of what the rest of the world's gonna do for him--that part keeps waiting for de la Fere to turn him in, to turn him and Aramis over and have them drummed out of the service in exchange for a shiny new bar on his jacket. 

But if he wanted to do that, he'd have done it already--wouldn't he? And there's something--there really _is_ something in the way de la Fere looks at Porthos, and even more in the way he looked at Aramis like he was the first water de la Fere had drunk in years.

Porthos just doesn't know what to fucking do. He needs Aramis, needs to talk to him and figure out what he wants. But Aramis isn't here, so.

Porthos thumps his head against the wall again.

He gets to breakfast a minute after everyone else to find the squad in high spirits, chatting excitedly. De la Fere sits at the head of the table with the other offices, and while he nods politely to acknowledge Porthos' salute, a wary tension settles around the edges of his eyes.

"What's going on?" Porthos asks Patterson as he sits down beside him.

Patterson grins at him. "De la Fere just told us--Meyers and Herrera are coming back. Brass decided to move that field hospital to here."

"You'll get your boyfriend back, Duvallon," Felix laughs. 

Porthos shoots back, "And yours, Meyers loves me more than you," on pure reflex, and Felix flips him off and everyone laughs and moves on, thank fuck. Porthos can barely breathe, his heart racing and his body lit up like a lightning rod. Aramis. 

That explains de la Fere's face, then.

Porthos and Felix are assigned to sentry duty (because while the Special Forces are here, their battalion is the Sorry But The Big Kids Are Playing division) on the side entrance of the base for the morning--mostly a lot of staring at desert and trying to control a restless twitch in his bones, and endless thinking about Aramis, Aramis, Aramis.

The bus from the field hospital comes in at 1120 hours. When Porthos sees the red cross on the side, his heart gets stuck up in his throat. He wishes it weren't Felix by his side, Felix who jokes all the fucking time about cocksucker this and bottom bitch that and incessantly refers to Aramis as his boyfriend--he can't even fucking _look_ at Aramis with Felix around. He wishes it were de la Fere. He wishes it were anybody else.

Meyers hangs out the side window as the bus slows to a stop for inspection, and he snaps Porthos and Felix a lazy salute. "Hey, lucky bastards, how's it going?"

"Lucky bastards?" Felix shoots back. "You're the lucky one, been lying in a bed for three weeks--"

Meyers flips him off with his uninjured hand, and Felix laughs and jogs over to meet him. Porthos tries to keep himself contained as he goes around to talk to the driver. It's all totally routine, and he goes through the words on autopilot, resolutely keeping his eyes from straying to the back seats of the bus.

"All right, you're good," he says, handing the papers back to the driver, and points him into the base. "Hospital's down around that way, can't miss it."

"Sure about that?" comes a wry voice from the back of the bus, and Porthos' heart thumps painfully loudly in his chest. "Because I'd love to miss it and get back on duty."

Porthos lets himself look, then, and Aramis is two rows back, his grin belying the intensity in his eyes. "Hey, brother."

Porthos' smile widens against his will. "Hey, brother," he echoes back, a world of feeling in those two words. "We'd love to get you back, too, but I'm pretty sure you need to be walking first." He's not completely caught up in Aramis' face; he's noticed the walking cast around Aramis' leg, too.

Aramis makes a disgusted sound and rolls his eyes. "Why does _that_ matter?"

Porthos has to literally fight his face to keep his grin a decent size and not turn into something disgustingly sappy that's gonna be a dead giveaway to anyone who's been in love in their life, and Aramis' smile flashes over his face again.

"I'll see you later," Porthos says, stepping back from the bus and thumping it twice on the door, the universal signal for _we're done now, move your ass._

"You'd better," Aramis calls as the bus goes on through onto the base. Porthos plays it as cool as he can--does not look longingly after it, does not avoid looking at Felix, responds to Felix' casually homophobic trash talk with trash of his own, until everything's settled again.

Lunch can't come soon enough, and for the first time Porthos is glad they're on loser rotation, confined to the dull day-in-day-out operations of the base, instead of something more dangerous. They're going to be moving out after Christmas, probably, but for now--for now he's not needed anywhere, really, and can beg out of lunch to go see Aramis. (After he's bolted a sandwich, of course, he's not fucking superhuman.)

Aramis, he learns as the nurse walks him down the hall, has his own room, because he's still having trouble sleeping and he doesn't want to wake anyone else up. 

He's also not alone, because Porthos walks in and nearly collides with de la Fere.

"Sir, I'm sorry," he says instantly, stepping back into the door. De la Fere must have been hovering just by it--ready to bolt, Porthos realizes instantly, because Aramis is sitting up in bed, straining forward like he was about to jump up. 

"It was my fault," de la Fere says, that cool mask of politeness in place. "I was just seeing how Herrera was doing."

"And how's that?" Porthos asks, directing that to Aramis.

"Better. Need another week of rehab on this leg, but better." Aramis' smile is halfway strained and halfway warm, but he holds out a hand to Porthos all the same. Porthos grins and moves to clasp it, to pull Aramis into his arms--then he remembers de la Fere's watchful presence, and just grips Aramis' hand tightly. 

Aramis' eyes flicker to de la Fere over Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos wonders why the man hasn't left yet. He clearly doesn't want to be here--but de la Fere seems as powerless to leave as Porthos is to ask him to stay. 

Aramis squeezes his hand--they still haven't let go--and Porthos settles on the edge of his bed, eyes tracing Aramis' face, trying to keep his expression casual. 

Behind them, de la Fere closes the door. Porthos startles and turns at the click of the latch, thinking de la Fere's left, but no--their lieutenant is standing next to the door, looking out through the small window in the center.

He glances back over his shoulder at the two of them. "There's no one coming, if you...need a moment."

Porthos stares. Is he offering what Porthos thinks he's offering?

"I'll make sure the coast is clear," de la Fere says, his voice as carefully neutral as Porthos' face, and Porthos' heart is literally thumping in his chest. He feels a little lightheaded with it.

Aramis' fingers tighten on his again, and Porthos looks swiftly back at him. Aramis is strained and pale-faced, clearly worried and clearly exhausted, and he holds on tight to Porthos' hand, like he can't stand letting go. "Porthos," Aramis says very softly, his need clear in his voice.

Porthos stares at him--glances back at de la Fere--glances around the room to make sure there's no fucking security camera. "You're sure?" he says to de la Fere. His voice cracks.

De la Fere nods, and his face is nearly as ashen as Aramis'. But he offered, so--Porthos has to take him at his word.

"Porthos, please," Aramis whispers, his hand trembling in Porthos' hold, and that's it.

Porthos leans forward and seals his lips over Aramis'. Aramis lets out a low, shuddering sound, and surges forward to meet him. It's their first kiss in weeks, and the second one that de la Fere's witnessed--fuck, Porthos wants to keep it gentle and soft and, what's the fucking word, _chaste_ , but he always forgets this is Aramis. This one starts gentle, but rapidly becomes something very much else, until Porthos is cradling Aramis' head between his hands and Aramis is clinging to the front of Porthos' fatigues and moaning into his mouth.

It's the moaning that finally jerks Porthos back into the present, and he pulls back, lets Aramis keep clinging but for fuck's sake needs him to stop moaning like he's dying. "Aramis," he says, and he'd meant it to be a warning but it comes out breathless and longing, and Aramis falls into him again to press his forehead against Porthos' and breathe his air.

"Porthos," Aramis whispers, his voice cracking. "I missed you so fucking much."

And Porthos wraps his arms around Aramis and pulls him close like he's wanted to for three fucking weeks, and it feels so, so good just to _hold him._ "I know, Aramis, I know, I missed you, too. I worried about you so much, I'm so glad you're okay." 

Aramis' face is tucked safely into the join of Porthos' neck and shoulder, so he can touch Porthos' skin and hear his heart beat, and Porthos feels the warm wetness of tears. 

Porthos strokes his hair, his face, and he just can't stop himself from saying it. "I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Aramis' body shivers with a sob, and he clings to Porthos even tighter. "Porthos," he whispers. _"Porthos."_

All the things they wanted to say at the hospital and couldn't, all the things they can only say now because--well, because they're alone. 

Except for de la Fere.

Porthos dares a glance over his shoulder--he has no idea to expect, doesn't know what'll be on de la Fere's face. 

But de la Fere is staring resolutely out the window of the door, his jaw set and his blue eyes shiny, and he doesn't even glance at them.

Porthos will never have the words to thank him, so he just turns back to Aramis and holds him tighter.

"I can't sleep, Porthos," Aramis whispers. "I can't even fucking close my eyes without feeling like I'm surrounded by bodies again, I hate it, I fucking hate sleeping alone--"

Porthos kisses Aramis' hair, his stomach twisting and his eyes stinging. "I wish I could stay with you. I wish I could make it better."

"You already are." Aramis' voice is choked. "Nobody's held me since you two pulled me out, nobody's _talked_ to me like this since he--"

He breaks off abruptly, and Porthos feels more than sees de la Fere's instant tension. 

_Since he--_? 

Since de la Fere said those things to Aramis, Porthos realizes; since de la Fere had held Aramis up and talked quietly to him until the worst of Aramis' shaking had stopped. 

Aramis lifts his head and stares over Porthos' shoulder, and Porthos turns slightly to see de la Fere still standing rigidly beside the door. He's not looking at either of them, and his knuckles are white where he's holding the door handle.

"Sir," Aramis says, and de la Fere gives that half-twitch that military men do when they're trying not to shudder. "while you're here. I wanted to ask you about what you said. I'm not sure I remember it all."

De la Fere's throat hitches. "If you remember any of it," de la Fere says, "then you know I can't repeat it."

Porthos wishes he fucking knew what they were saying, but de la Fere's clearly frozen and Aramis' face isn't telling him anything. "Sir," Aramis says again, his voice throbbing with unexpressed emotion, "we don't have to--it doesn't have to _be_ anything, I just wanted to--" He breaks off, biting his lip, and de la Fere blinks furiously, eyes gazing out the door window and seeing nothing.

"Sir, would you look at us, please?" Aramis asks, very quietly, and de la Fere bolts.

He's flung the door open and half-run out of the room before Porthos can say anything, and he looks sharply at Aramis. Aramis' mouth hangs half-open, and his face is so open, so sad and so fucking _needy_ that Porthos wants to cry.

"What did he say?" Porthos asks him, his heart pounding like _he's_ the one who just took off running. "Aramis, what the fuck is going on?"

"Go after him," Aramis says, looking quickly at Porthos. "Porthos, you have to get him back here, you can't let him run away--"

"If he wants to, maybe we should," Porthos argues, adrenaline making him lightheaded. "Aramis, this is dangerous, we don't know if--"

"He needs us," Aramis says, grabbing Porthos' wrists and squeezing tightly. "Porthos, I think he wants this, you _cannot_ let him go, just bring him back so we can _talk--_ "

He looks so desperate and worried, and it tears Porthos' heart, but none of that is what gets him up out of the bed. 

What makes him jump up and follow de la Fere is the _hope_ in Aramis' eyes--the same hope and want that Porthos feels. 

So he leans in and gives Aramis one more swift kiss before he gets up and goes, at a run, after de la Fere. 

Porthos barely remembers to slow from a jog to a walk as he rounds the corner from the hall to the lobby. He pauses, looking around, then gets a glimpse of de la Fere's back, and the closing swing of the door, and Porthos rushes after him.

He doesn't see de la Fere, at first, outside, and for a second he thinks _fuck, that's it, lost the chance_ \--but some instinct makes him try the side of the building first, before just giving up. Maybe it's because it's what he would have done himself--maybe it's just weirdly right, because that's how this whole mess started, with de la Fere catching them behind a building.

De la Fere stands slumped against the side of the hospital, bracing himself against the wall with one hand. It's the most crumpled Porthos has ever seen him look--he normally holds himself so straight, like he's not allowed to bend at all. The dirt and sand drifts are high in this little alley--no one's been back here since it was built, Porthos guesses; there's no doors or windows, and it's too narrow for any vehicle--and the minute he steps into the alleyway, the noise of the base drops off completely.

It's just them.

Porthos can hear de la Fere breathing--fast, panicked--and Porthos steps forward. He doesn't know what he's going to say, but-- "Sir?"

De la Fere freezes, and Porthos swallows hard. He takes another step closer and tries to breathe. "Are you...okay?"

De la Fere's breath comes in short, sharply-controlled pants. "I can't do this," he says.

Porthos' heart splinters, just a little.

De la Fere shakes his head. His voice shakes just as much. "This is--it can't happen."

Porthos does his very best to stay steady. "What can't?" 

"You know what," de la Fere snaps, still bracing himself against the wall, spitting his words at the ground. 

Emotion floods up in Porthos' throat. "No, I really don't," he says, and cautiously moves closer. He feels so fucking lost, but Aramis was right. They can't leave it like this.

"It's wrong," de la Fere grinds out. He still isn't looking at Porthos. "On so-- _so_ many levels, it's wrong."

Porthos' throat hitches. "What? Me and him?" If that's what de la Fere's saying, he may actually throw up.

But de la Fere shakes his head, and Porthos is brave enough to move closer. They're a few yards apart, now, close enough for Porthos to see the agonized rise and fall of de la Fere's chest.

"No," de la Fere says, his voice tight. "No, not--not that."

"Then I don't _understand._ "

Porthos hears his own voice break, and de la Fere looks up at last. Porthos' voice cracks, and he feels his eyes sting, but he has to go on. He's gone too far, now. "I don't understand," he says, his eyes locked on de la Fere's, "what we're fucking _doing._ I don't understand why this has to be so fucking hard when it should just be fucking _simple_ , easy."

De la Fere stares at Porthos like he's never seen his face before--and Porthos feels the same. It feels like he's never known de la Fere like this, this open, this _vulnerable,_ and he's never looked at de la Fere this way, searching his face for anything to let Porthos know what the hell he's supposed to fucking _do._

"Easy?" de la Fere echoes. "What's supposed to be _easy_ about--"

"About feelings?" Porthos doesn't know when he got closer, but he could reach out and touch de la Fere now if he wanted to, and he does but he shouldn't but he _does_ and he wishes de la Fere would do it first. "I don't fucking _know_ , okay, but I know we can't keep fucking staring at each other across rooms and staying quiet and never opening our mouths to say--"

And de la Fere grabs Porthos' shoulders and backs him into the building, and then de la Fere's pinning him and Porthos' hands are flat on the wall behind him because if he touches de la Fere he will never stop, and they're staring at each other and they're both breathing hard and fuck, holy fuck, those blue eyes literally glow when de la Fere's like this, late sun and fervor both bringing his face to life.

"Don't," de la Fere says--nearly begs. "Don't, _don't,_ Porthos. Not you, not Aramis--don't. I _can't._ "

"Why not?" Porthos shoots back. His heart pounds in his throat, the concrete's cold against his back, and de la Fere is so fucking close. "Why can't we even talk about it?" He just wants to _talk_ , wants to know what the fuck is going on behind that stoic expression and what all the last few weeks _mean--_

"You fucking know why not, you know it's an arrest or a court-martial or something so much worse," de la Fere says, and his voice is raw and ragged. "It's so many fucking things and you can't _tell_ me that it's supposed to be easy when there is _no way it could ever be._ " He sucks in a gasp of air and his eyes are wild, but now that he's so close, it's like he can't take them off Porthos' face. 

Porthos can't look away from him, either. "It's too fucking late, though, isn't it?" De la Fere's face shifts, twitching like Porthos hit him, like a flinch, and Porthos swallows hard. "If we still could walk away from whatever the fuck's happening here--we would have," he goes on, heartened by the way de la Fere's eyes blink rapidly, the _no_ Porthos sees forming on his lips. "We'd have walked away weeks ago. Aramis wouldn't have sent me after you today. I wouldn't have come. You would have turned us in."

"Never," de la Fere says, his voice barely a whisper. His throat clicks when he swallows, his face soft for the first time since Porthos has known him, and Christ, he is so fucking _young_ , Porthos forgets de la Fere's just as young as he is, they are twenty-fucking-three and they should not be having to treat the barest hint of feelings as this literal life-or-death circumstance that it is. 

"I know it's--it's different for you, than it is for me and Aramis," Porthos says, his fingers flexing on the cold wall behind him. He wants to touch de la Fere so badly--de la Fere's hands are still on his shoulders, holding him to the wall, but it's like de la Fere's frozen, like he's forgotten, almost, that he's holding Porthos still. "I know for just me and him, it's one thing, but you--" He swallows. "I mean, it's double against the rules, isn't it?"

De la Fere actually does flinch at that. "Fraternization," he says lowly, even as his eyes track over Porthos' face. "Even if we could, if we weren't both--all--men, we couldn't..."

"It's not coercion," Porthos says desperately. "It's not--we'd both swear to it, you're not holding anything over us, and we have to keep it secret anyway, so--"

"It doesn't matter." De la Fere's voice is hollow. "Secrets on secrets, for one wrong and immoral thing after another..." Porthos would flinch, but there's absolutely no conviction in de la Fere's voice--it's like he's just reciting something someone said to him once.

His eyes have stopped at Porthos' lips, and Porthos' whole body aches with holding back. 

"I can't," de la Fere whispers, his voice tight with pain. "Porthos, I can't."

Porthos has to stop himself from leaning forward. His own voice is so low he can barely hear it. "But we want you to."

De la Fere's eyes snap up to his. For a second, they just stare at each other, their chests nearly touching as they breathe.

Then de la Fere surges up and crashes his lips against Porthos'.

Porthos grabs him, holds him, takes de la Fere's face in his hands and keeps him close, and they're kissing like they're both gonna die at any second. De la Fere is shaking in his arms and he's got both hands in Porthos' hair and he's making low, agonized sounds deep in his throat, and Porthos just wants to make it okay, make him all right, so he pulls him closer and turns gentle, softer, until de la Fere's shuddering has turned to trembling, and his whole body is plastered up against Porthos' and they're so close Porthos can hardly think--

And then something explodes.

They break apart, both of them dazed and looking wildly around, and part of Porthos wonders if he's just imagining it or if the world's literally fucking ending because he _kissed de la Fere--_

And then another explosion concusses the air, and de la Fere's face sharpens back into _lieutenant_ and Porthos' brain snaps back into _soldier._

The two of them bolt back down the alley into the street, and it's fucking chaos, with soldiers running one way and civilian staff running the other, and he can hear people yelling in the hospital--and smoke rises in a column from the end of the street, near the fence--near the weapons depot. 

Weirdly, the sight calms Porthos. What just happened with de la Fere--the half-conversation, the kiss--he has no clue what to do about. But this? This is his job.

"Stay with me," de la Fere says, every inch the officer again, and Porthos nods. The two of them take off at a run.

It takes Porthos' tactical mind less than a minute to realize what's happening. Someone's blown a hole in the fence, and not-soldiers are hauling ass with boxes of grenades and ammunition while other not-soldiers lay down suppressing fire. Porthos can hear other people yelling orders, to form up, organize a counterattack--but it's all oddly distant, and he realizes he and de la Fere are the closest. Except for the men who'd been guarding the weapons depot, all of whom seem to be laid out on the ground, unconscious or worse, everyone else is farther back down the street, by the barracks. It's just the hospital down here, and it was lunchtime.

The two of them duck behind a parked Jeep, and de la Fere looks cautiously around the side. He pulls his head back quickly, and makes a few quick motions to Porthos. Porthos nods, and they move carefully around the side of the car. It should be simple. They'll grab weapons off the injured, get to the hole in the fence, and do enough damage to stop the attackers' getaway. The grenades and automatic weapons cannot leave the base under any circumstances--they can't let any paramilitary forces be that well-armed, they can't risk the civilian casualties.

Of course it doesn't go that fucking easy, because this is Porthos' life and when the fuck has it ever gone as smoothly as he wanted it to. But he and de la Fere are side-by-side, working in unison, and Porthos can trust de la Fere to make the best call--he knows just what Porthos is good at, knows how he shoots and how he moves, and the two of them trade off targets perfectly.

They work. They _work_ together. They breathe together, they move in sync--Porthos shoots while de la Fere ducks, and de la Fere can lay down a line of shots in the dirt, blocking off the path to a stack of homemade explosives from Tora Bora while Porthos covers him. They get a good position and a half-decent cover--and then their shots draw their attackers' fire.

Motion flashes in the corner of Porthos' eye, but he doesn't have a chance to glance until it's moved behind him. When he finally manages to half-turn around, his heart stops. "Sir--!"

De la Fere glances back, and Porthos sees the split-second of horror flash across his face. He turns, Porthos follows--

There are three men with rifles pointed straight at them.

Everything goes sharp and clear, for a split second, in a way it's never been before. 

Porthos takes a half-step in front of de la Fere. 

_"No,"_ de la Fere yells, reaching for him, but Porthos isn't listening--he barely has time to think _sorry, Aramis--_

A rifle round buries itself in their first attacker's chest. Before the blood has time to spray, another round sinks home in the second, and then the third, and the three men are dead just as gunfire behind them announces the cavalry.

De la Fere's hand closes around Porthos' arm, drags him back behind the shelter of the Jeep, and Porthos half-falls back. 

There was barely time to blink.

They stare at each other. Then they twist, looking back over the fight, back to where their savior shots might have come from.

In a high window of the hospital, away from the chaos, a rifle barrel rests on the window ledge. A moment later, a face ducks into view, craning down to see them--

And Aramis smiles, and lifts a hand in a cocky little salute. 

All Porthos' breath leaves his body in a rush, and he sinks down against the wheel of the Jeep. He's laughing--maybe he's crying? He has no idea. _Aramis._

De la Fere leans heavily against the car, and Porthos can hear his breath coming in adrenaline wheezes, too.

"See?" Porthos pants, looking up at de la Fere and grinning. "Three of us, we work pretty damn well together."

De la Fere's chest shakes with what could be either laughs or sobs, and neither of them says a word until their squad comes flooding around the side of the Jeep, and de la Fere straightens and starts giving orders.

"...And not that I'm complaining in the slightest, but someone figure out how the hell Herrera got a rifle in the hospital," he says finally, and holds out a hand to pull Porthos upright. 

His fingers grip tighter than they need to for just a moment, and Porthos looks swiftly at his face--but de la Fere doesn't look at him. 

And then that's it, and de la Fere turns and walks away, and there's nothing Porthos can do.

\- - -

Porthos finds out two days later there had been two Special Forces snipers visiting an injured friend down the hall, and one of them had stayed with their comrade while Aramis and the other went to the windows--but it takes him two days to hear it because he can't work up the guts to go and see Aramis until then.

He spends the next day sunk in his duties, because he can't fucking think of anything but the agony of that fucking talk in the hospital, the _kiss,_ the firefight--how good it had felt, working together like that--and then the way he'd just let him go.

 _You couldn't say anything,_ Porthos tells himself, _you weren't alone, he's your superior officer, you couldn't call after him._ It doesn't make him feel any better. It doesn't help. 

He can't think of a way to tell Aramis _I kissed him_ and then follow it up with _and then I couldn't think of a way to keep him from walking away so I haven't seen him all day and I think he's gonna avoid us for the rest of our lives_ , so he stays away. It feels like shit. He feels like an asshole. He doesn't know what to do.

But the day after that is Christmas Eve, and Porthos isn't a big enough piece of shit to avoid Aramis on Christmas fucking Eve.

It's a quiet day on base--they're all on alert, because of the firefight, but patrols have been doubled and Porthos doesn't think anyone's getting through that. Anyway, it doesn't really affect him: because he and de la Fere, and Aramis, managed to keep half the ammunition in the base from getting stolen, their whole squad's off-duty for Christmas.

As terrified as he is of admitting to Aramis that he failed, there's still nothing more Porthos wants to do than spend the whole day with him. He just needs to get permission first.

The safest way to do it is to ask in front of as many witnesses as possible. If he wanted to look suspicious, he'd just ask someone one-on-one; this way, it looks like he has nothing to hide. So Porthos swallows his terror and goes up to the officers' table at breakfast on Christmas Eve. He salutes, and waits for them to notice him.

Everyone does, but since de la Fere is his immediate superior, it's de la Fere that has to speak to him.

When he does, his eyes are cool and his voice cooler. "Duvallon?"

"Sir." Porthos salutes again, and makes his voice as noncommittal as possible. "I was wondering if I could have permission to spend the day with Herrera in the hospital. It's Christmas, he's my closest friend here, and I'd hate to leave him all alone."

He can see their captain nodding approvingly a few seats down from de la Fere, and Porthos is heartened. Aramis, though still confined to his hospital room, will be resting comfortably for a few weeks on the heroic laurels of saving Porthos and de la Fere's lives. Managing three shots like that with no scope and only one leg to stand on is no joke. Everyone wants to do something nice for Aramis, these days.

"Of course," de la Fere says, after a glance to his own superiors for approval. 

Then something softens in his cool blue eyes, and he adds, after a moment's pause, "You might expect me later. I don't believe I've thanked him yet for those three shots."

A laugh chases its way around the officers' table, and Porthos salutes again, hoping the stiffness of the pose will conceal the sudden nerves unfurling in his chest. That man blows hot and cold like no one Porthos has ever met in his life. "Yes, sir," he says. "Thank you, sir." De la Fere inclines his head, and Porthos leaves before his eyes can give them away. 

He swings by their barracks to get his Christmas gift for Aramis--he bartered latrine duty for a pack of new cards and a bag of Lays. It's a piss-poor and utterly pitiful Christmas surprise, but from the look on Aramis' face when he turns up to deliver it, he could be Scrooge with the best fucking turkey in England.

The way Aramis' face lights up when Porthos steps into his hospital room makes his stomach clench with guilt. It's totally open, completely guileless, and says louder than words _I didn't think you were coming--_ and Porthos feels like shit. 

"I should have come yesterday," he says instantly, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry, Aramis--"

"I don't care, I'm sure you had reasons and it doesn't matter anymore, come here," Aramis interrupts him, shifting in bed and beaming up at him. "Are those--did you bring me a _present?"_ He sounds incredulous, delighted, and Porthos feels a hot swoop of affection at being able to do at least one fucking normal boyfriend thing, for once in their damn lives.

Porthos grins shamefacedly at Aramis and produces the pack of cards and bag of plain potato chips (fuck, he couldn't even get something flavored, _the least you could have done was try to barter for some fucking Cheetos, Duvallon)_. "It's...I mean, it's not--"

Aramis holds up a hand to stop him. His smile crinkles his eyes in a way Porthos hasn't seen in weeks. "Is that door locked? Did anyone follow you?"

Porthos checks. "Yes and no, in that order."

Aramis beams at him. "I love you. Come here."

It's as simple as that, then.

Porthos grins and does as he's commanded. Aramis is lying on top of his sheets in a t-shirt and loose scrub bottoms, the walking cast gone for today, and Porthos sees bandages peeking out from the ankle of his pants. The shadows under his eyes are a little better, the hollows a little less pronounced, and he leans in for a kiss as Porthos settles down beside him. 

It's soft and sweet, and they're both smiling too much for anything more intense, but damn, it feels good.

"You're looking better," Porthos says when they finally break apart, feeling his own smile threatening to split his face in two as he traces his nose along Aramis'.

Aramis' eyes glow when he looks at Porthos. "It helps being back in the middle of things. Seeing you--" He ducks his head in a grin. "Saving you."

"Thanks for that, by the way," Porthos says, kissing his cheek. "I can't believe you did that."

Aramis shrugs, and it's so good to see him being casually modest about the impossible again. "I wish I hadn't killed them," he says softly, and his eyes shadow slightly. But that's--well, Porthos would be worried if taking a life _didn't_ sober him slightly. Aramis never takes killing lightly--only to save a comrade, or a civilian. "But I only had a clear body shot, and there wasn't time, you were--"

He nods. "In the line of fire."

"Being an idiot, actually," Aramis corrects him, and the irritated flash of his dark eyes is so beautifully familiar. "How the hell could you let them flank you like that? Are you completely useless without me?"

Porthos half-grins at him. "Is that a trick question?"

Aramis punches his arm, and Porthos can't help but laugh. It feels so unbelievably good just to be together like this, playful and light, with no need to pretend. "It is not a fucking trick question, I will break myself trying to get better faster if I think you need me to be watching your back every second of the day."

"I do need that," Porthos reminds him. His heart goes uncomfortably gooey in his chest. 

Aramis' cheeks flush slightly, and his glower turns into a slightly sappy smile. "Porthos."

Porthos smiles at him. Then he sighs, memory sobering him again. "But you're right. I was distracted; something...big had just happened."

Aramis' face sharpens. "Porthos?"

Well. No time like the present to tell him.

With a sigh, Porthos sets the cards and chips down on Aramis' bedside table. Then he takes a deep breath, and takes Aramis' hands in his.

Then he tells him everything.

As close as he can remember, he tells Aramis everything that happened after they left the room: everything he'd said, everything de la Fere had said; how de la Fere had sounded, how he'd acted. 

And then the kiss.

Aramis' eyes are huge in his face, and Porthos is so, so grateful that the look on Aramis' face is overwhelmingly one of sympathy.

"And...you know, I'd swear to God that it was his first kiss, Aramis," Porthos sighs, shaking his head as he remembers. "He was so--I don't even know how to describe it. The way he fell into me, it was like he'd been starving for it his whole life." And Porthos feels guilty as all hell, now, thinking about it that way, because what a shitty fucking first kiss that would have been, all teeth and desperation--

Aramis sighs and squeezes Porthos' hands. "He's from a very old military family, did you know?" Porthos shakes his head, and Aramis' mouth ticks up in a rueful smile. "If he is...well, like us, he--he may never have been able to. You know. Kiss."

 _A boy_ is the implied ending, and Porthos' heart clenches at the thought. He's been in the closet most of his life, that's one thing, and they're all in the same boat with that--but not even being able to _have_ the closet, just needing to completely erase that part of yourself, not even able to have it in secret...

"No wonder he's so scared," Porthos sighs, and his body presses closer to Aramis' automatically, seeking his warmth and comfort.

Aramis shushes him, and rests his head on Porthos' shoulder. "We need to be gentle with him," he says softly. "He has much more to lose than we do."

Porthos' throat tightens, and he surprises himself with the sudden burn of tears in his eyes. "You think--" His voice is too choked, and he swallows. "You think he'll be back, then?"

Aramis' chest hitches where it's pressed against Porthos', and he gives a shaky laugh. "Well, I was before you asked me that. Do you--do you think he won't?"

"I don't know."

Porthos doesn't. He has no idea. And he doesn't know why the thought of losing de la Fere _hurts_ so much. They've known each other for a bare few months, been close for less--they've shared a little, the way soldiers do, but de la Fere's an officer, and even as a person, he's too aloof to let anyone closer. Porthos thinks he's gorgeous, yeah--loves his dry flashes of humor, admires his skill, his mind, and the compassion that peeks out in their civilian interactions--but. 

That's enough for a crush. Not something that feels like this.

He wraps his arms around Aramis' chest, pulling him close. "Aramis, what are we doing?" he sighs.

Aramis' arms come up to encircle him, too, and he turns his face into Porthos' neck and buries it there. "Falling in love," Aramis says wryly. "In the worst, most ill-advised way." He sighs. "If I could stop, if I could take it back, that would be one thing, but..." He trails off, and his breath is warm against Porthos' skin. "It's like you said to him, isn't it? It's too late. We love him."

Porthos swallows, and rests his cheek against Aramis' hair. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "We gotta follow where this takes us, Aramis. I'd never forgive myself if we let him go like this."

Aramis lifts his head, and Porthos is relieved to see him smiling. "My thoughts exactly," he says, and hugs Porthos tightly. 

As if on cue, there's a diffident knock on the door.

Aramis literally jumps like he's been electrocuted, and Porthos swears as they pull apart. "Fuck. That's--shit, that might be him, I forgot to tell you he said he might--"

"Unlock the fucking door," Aramis hisses at him, waving a hand at his own leg, and Porthos jumps off the bed.

He was right: it is de la Fere. Their lieutenant's face is as calm as ever, when Porthos opens the door to find him standing in parade rest outside in the hall--but Porthos knows him better now. His eyes are a mess. "May I come in?" he asks, even and polite.

"Of course, sir," Porthos says, snapping a quick salute as he stands aside.

De la Fere walks in--nods to Aramis, who also straightens and gives his best salute around the questions in his own eyes--and then, to Porthos' surprise, closes and locks the door behind him.

"I'd rather not be interrupted for this conversation," he says quietly, looking at the lock, and not either of then. "If you both are all right with that."

They share a look. Porthos' giddy heart is beating out of his chest. "Yes, sir," he answers for Aramis as well, and de la Fere winces.

It's that that makes him straighten, make eye contact with them both, and now that they're alone, with no chance of being caught or overheard--de la Fere's a little different. He's no less tense, but--tense in different ways than Porthos has seen him before. His back isn't as ramrod straight, hiding his own perceived weakness in parade rest and a soldier's pose; instead, his shoulders and face are carrying all his tension, shoulders that are bowed down with cares Porthos can barely understand, and heavy eyes that Porthos can't read.

"It doesn't feel very fair of me to ask this," de la Fere says, "but--I'd like to leave my rank at the door, if I can."

Aramis' face softens, and his dark eyes are sweet and luminous as he looks up at de la Fere. "We'd very much like to talk to you as just yourself, as well," he says, and motions for Porthos to come sit back down.

Porthos goes. He's grateful for the offer--his knees feel like jelly. They're actually going to talk about this. They're actually gonna do it.

De la Fere stays standing, and as Porthos sits back on Aramis' bed, he looks away again. Like he wants to give them privacy, or--

"Thank you," he says abruptly. "For saving our lives. I should have come to tell you yesterday, but--well, I've been avoiding you."

"I know." Aramis smiles at him, even though de la Fere's not looking to see it. "It's all right."

"It isn't." De la Fere shakes his head, and he's staring at his shoes again. "I don't--I don't really understand what's been happening the past few weeks."

"Since you caught us behind the mess hall," Porthos says, and de la Fere's face changes at the recollection of it. Less tense, more--wistful?

"Yes," he says, his voice quiet. "Yes, that was...a shock."

Aramis laughs gently, and it eases some of the lines in de la Fere's face. "That we could be so very brazen about it?"

De la Fere half-smiles, and tilts his head slightly. 

"Well, yes, actually," he says, and he dares a glance up at them. For the first time since Porthos has met him, he looks his age--a little shy, maybe kind of uncertain, and Porthos' heart jackhammers against his ribs. Fuck, he's so gorgeous and he doesn't even seem to know.

"It was unfathomable, to me," de la Fere says slowly, "that you would even dare to risk it."

Aramis reaches for Porthos' hand, and Porthos threads his fingers through Aramis', squeezing gently. He doesn't miss the hungry way that de la Fere's eyes track the movement of their hands. 

"Getting caught," Aramis says, looking directly at de la Fere, "would be bad, yes. But it wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen."

De la Fere stares at him. "No?" he asks, and his voice is ragged at the edges. His eyes are wild. "Losing your job, your standing--losing the Army and everything it is--those _aren't_ the worst things that could happen?" He sounds desperate, almost, and that's when Porthos realizes--

De la Fere has never had any alternative. He went to West Point--he probably did ROTC at his rich-boy prep school before that, probably didn't have a choice in any of it... There was never a happier option, never a chance to be whoever he'd be without his military career. 

There has never been anything but _be in the Army and be good_ for him. 

Aramis shakes his head, and his fingers tighten on Porthos'. "The worst thing would be having to live without him."

Porthos flushes hot all over, and Aramis smiles at him.

De la Fere just stares at them.

He stares at them, and he doesn't say a word--and then he has his very own earthquake. His legs shake, his hands are trembling, and he sits down heavily on the far edge of the bed.

"You're right," he says. "You're right, it is the very worst thing."

Porthos reaches out to him. He can't help it. De la Fere looks so lonely, so crushed, and Porthos reaches out to cover his hand where it rests limply on the bedspread.

De la Fere cringes away from the touch, and Porthos clenches his fist, draws it back instantly. "I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, "I'm sorry, I--"

"No," de la Fere croaks, looking lost. "No, I just--I don't know how to be like this." He shakes his head, a bitter half-smile twisting his lips. "I've never had the opportunity."

Porthos has never been so unhappy to be right in his life, and Aramis clucks softly in sympathy, shifting forward a little.

De la Fere shakes his head, his eyes unfocused on the space between them. "I have spent my _entire_ life hiding this," he says. "No one's known. No one _could_ know." 

His eyes flick up to Porthos and Aramis' joined hands on the bed, and he shakes his head slowly back and forth. "And then I saw you two like that--together despite all the things that have kept me hiding myself away from the better part of my life."

"Were you angry with us?" Aramis asks quietly. "I thought you were, at first."

"No." De la Fere's still looking at their hands. "No, I...wished I could have that." 

"Oh," Aramis breathes softly, and Porthos' heart breaks a little.

De la Fere swallows hard, closes his eyes. "And then--the two of you. You're..." He turns pink. "You're both very... I don't think either of you knows just how much you..." He trails off, his face a little helpless, and he's blushing, and Porthos feels a very familiar stab of empathy.

"Yeah, Aramis is too pretty," Porthos says, trying to lighten things a bit. "He has that effect on people." And de la Fere smiles--but then looks up, and fixes that unsettlingly blue gaze on Porthos.

"So do you," he says, and Porthos' spine literally tingles.

"I always tell him," Aramis says. His eyes are very keen on de la Fere, and when de la Fere glances over to him, Aramis' cheeks flush slightly. "So--is it just that we're the first, closest, male-attracted people you've seen lately? Because that's fine, we can be that for you--"

"No," de la Fere says in a rush--then realizes how eager he's sounded, and visibly pulls himself back. He swallows, collects himself. "No," he says, more calmly. "No, that isn't it at all."

Porthos swallows. His heart won't slow down, and he feels a little guilty asking the question, but he has to-- "Then why us?" he asks, and feels himself flush when de la Fere looks back at him.

There's a longing in those eyes that kills Porthos, a little, and de la Fere blinks slowly at him. "You aren't afraid," he says finally. "You're...yourselves. Yes, there's this, the sexuality thing, but..." He trails off, struggling with the words. "You're both so many other things, too--but you aren't those things because you're ashamed of who you are. I've never been like that."

He flushes, his eyes go soft, and he adds, in a low voice like he can't believe he's saying it, "You make me want to be like that."

They're all quiet for a moment. They have to take it in. The ground has to reform underneath their feet; the air needs to change so they can breathe it again.

"I'd give all this up for you," Porthos says into the silence, and both Aramis and de la Fere turn to stare at him. "Both of you. I know, it's--it's going to be hard, we'll have to be so careful, but I'd take the discharge if we've found something that's gonna change our lives."

De la Fere nods slowly, and he shifts just that fraction closer on the bed--close enough to touch, maybe?

Yes-- _yes,_ that's it, he slides his hand a little forward on the bed, and Porthos reaches out to cover it. 

De la Fere smiles tremulously at him, and Porthos grins back, as encouraging as he can be. "We _will_ have to be careful," de la Fere says, his voice shaking on the underside. "I'm still--I'm still your officer, I won't be able to give you any preference--I'm going to have to order you into danger at _some_ point."

"We know," Aramis says steadily. "We _know._ We could die tomorrow. One of us, or two of us. We've always known that."

De la Fere nods, and he looks sick at the thought--but Porthos squeezes his hand, and he glances up, flashes him a faint smile, and that's better.

"We'll always have to be careful," Porthos reminds them both. "Until we're done, if we ever decide to be." Aramis nods, de la Fere closes his eyes, and...well, what more needs to be said? 

Porthos swallows, hard, and there's no turning back from here--so he takes a deep breath, and just says it. 

"But that alone isn't a good enough reason for me to say no," he says. "So I say we try it."

Aramis beams at him, his smile fierce and his eyes glittering with love, with _pride._ "I do, too," he says, and looks to de la Fere. "I don't want to never know you like we could."

De la Fere looks between them, and he's breathing a little harder, a little faster, and he's so _close_ , they're almost there. He hesitates, and he's scared, Porthos can see that he's scared--Porthos wants to say something, he wants to help, but he knows that de la Fere has to, _has to_ , come to this on his own. 

And finally, de la Fere takes his deep breath and looks up at them. "I want to know you both," he says. "I want to meet the people we can be together."

Porthos can barely breathe.

That's it, then.

They're gonna do this.

Aramis laughs, and he sounds joyful, _free_ in a way that Porthos hasn't heard him sound in a long, long time. "Yes, _sir_ ," he says, beaming.

But De la Fere winces, looking pained, and Porthos can see Aramis kicking himself for ruining the moment. "You probably shouldn't call me that," de la Fere says ruefully. "Not--in moments like this, just--" He's stumbling, and Porthos squeezes his hand, to settle him. De la Fere flashes him a thankful look, and breathes. "I mean. You can use my name. I want you to."

Aramis' eyes glow, and he reaches for de la Fere--and then stops, and a puzzled smile dawns on his face. "I--I don't _know_ your name," he half-laughs, twining his fingers in de la Fere's. 

De la Fere ducks his head and smiles, almost shyly, and Porthos is firmly, irrevocably in love with this man. It's settled. He loves this man as much as he loves Aramis--when he wasn't supposed to fall in love here, when they aren't supposed to be doing this. 

Porthos figures, now, that was maybe the only way he was ever gonna fall in love--when he was absolutely forbidden to.

"Well?" he asks softly, shifting closer.

De la Fere looks up at the two of them, and God, he's fucking gorgeous, with eyes all deep and warm like that--showing his face for the first time in his life.

"Athos," he says. There's a faint blush in his cheeks, and it makes Porthos want to wrap him up and never let him go. "Call me Athos."

Porthos grins at him. "Athos," he says, trying it out, and de la Fere-- _Athos_ \--blushes a little deeper.

Aramis slides forward in bed, and Porthos reflexively reaches out to him, steadying Aramis so he can reach out and lace his fingers with their new third.

"Athos," Aramis breathes, his eyes alight again. _"Athos."_

Athos smiles at them--and it's this wonderful little thing, like he's relearning how to make his face be gentle.

Porthos is going to give him as much practice as he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will conclude our tale--I hope it'll be up soon. As always, [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/ask)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 22, 23, and 24, 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends this little tale. I loved writing this; I hope you all loved reading it. Thank you so much for the incredible feedback you've all given me on this piece.

_December 22, 2014_

This is not the way Porthos wanted to meet the General. 

Athos had never told them what to expect, because Athos had clearly never intended them to meet the man. And of course none of them had expected to meet him like this--staring each other down in Treville's office, over the box of personal effects that Athos had left at the base in Afghanistan before his team was taken.

Treville had called Porthos and Aramis to come get it, because it was theirs--had been so very gentle about telling him that the base staff had sent personal effects home, because if-- _when_ they find Athos and his team, they'll put them straight on a plane back stateside. 

(It's not because they've given up, Aramis had to tell Porthos over and over again, when he was trying not to be that pitiful fucker crying on the subway on the way over here. _Darling, I promise you, it's not because they gave up on him._ )

But they walked into Treville's office to find the General already there, because he'd heard about the delivery through his people, and he'd just _assumed_ that Athos' things would be his to take. Never mind that he hadn't spoken to Athos in six years, that he'd disowned him the last time they spoke. Of course he'd have claim to Athos' things.

Porthos and Aramis had walked in to hear _just want something to put on the coffin for the wake_ , Aramis half-yelled _"Excuse me?"_ , and it went so far downhill from there that Porthos is pretty sure they're in hell now.

The General looks exactly like Athos--older, colder, but it's clear that all the people they've met over the years who tell Athos he's the spitting image of his father weren't joking. _I always try not to break eye contact,_ Athos had said once, _it's like trying to stare down a grizzly bear_ , and Porthos is doing the same. He is very carefully not looking away--not appealing to Treville, not looking at Aramis--but fuck, it's hard. 

The General's got Athos' eyes. Or Athos has his, more like. Whatever. They're the same, and Porthos is trying to stay calm and keep his face even and keep his anger under control and _not start fucking crying_ and with the way he's barely been sleeping it is almost all too fucking much.

"I'm sorry, General de la Fere," Treville says carefully, "but Athos' instructions were very clear."

Aramis trembles with barely-contained rage at Porthos' side. "That box is ours," he snaps, and Porthos tightens the arm he has around Aramis' shoulders.

The General stands at his full height, and he looks at Porthos and Aramis like they're the spit that shined his shoe. "Olivier's effects--"

 _"Athos,"_ Aramis growls, rocking forward in Porthos' hold. "If you knew a single thing about him, you'd call him by his name--"

"I gave him his name," the General barks, "I would certainly think I know it."

"You don't know a thing about him," Aramis snarls. Porthos has never heard him sound this furious. "You never wanted to know a single thing about his life except what you _expected_ it to be, and you decided he wasn't your son anymore the first time he tried to tell you anything--"

The General takes a menacing step forward, and Porthos pulls himself up, braces himself, shoulders himself just a fraction of an inch in front of Aramis. The General doesn't even look at him. "I will thank you," he says, "not to tell me about my relationship with my own son." 

Aramis spits out a laugh like machine-gun fire, bitter and hateful. "So he wasn't your son while he was here, while you could _love_ him, but now that he's going to die a fucking hero, suddenly you care again?"

The General draws up short, his face livid, but Aramis keeps going. "The _second_ he's dead, you can erase his entire life and make him be the perfect fucking fiction you wanted him to be, that he literally _killed_ himself to be for you, because all that matters is how it'll look on the family tree, doesn't it?" Another bitter, angry laugh breaks free of Aramis' chest, and he shakes his head, furious tears making his eyes shine. "So why the _fuck_ do you want a few books, an iPod with a cracked screen, and a youth center hoodie?"

"How do you," the General begins, looking sharply at Treville, but Aramis cuts him off, still furious. 

"How do I _know?_ I helped him _pack,_ I've lived with him for six years, I know what he keeps on his nightstand, but since you've done your very best to pretend we don't exist since he told you about us, I can see why you wouldn't--"

"Aramis," Porthos says, his chest feeling like it's going to crack in two, and Aramis finally, mercifully, falls silent.

The General looks at Porthos, finally, with that faint look of surprise old white men always give Porthos when he's the calm one. Porthos wonders how much of Athos' family's disapproval is because he and Aramis aren't white. He wonders if it matters, if "in love with Athos" would have been enough to turn any men away.

Porthos has always wondered if Athos was too worried about his parents' reception of their relationship--if somehow, they'd be forgiving once they actually met Porthos and Aramis, if their commitment to each other would show Athos' parents that Aramis and Porthos were good for him.

But no, he realizes as he and the General stare each other down. Athos had been completely, totally right. This isn't going to be a fucking Hallmark special; there's not going to be a tearful moment of acceptance, when he and Aramis join Athos' parents in their grief, bonded by mutual sorrow or some shit.

There's nothing but rejection and disdain in those eyes. But Porthos is grateful, almost--he's never seen that kind of sneer on Athos' face, never seen Athos look at anyone half so cruelly, and it snaps him out of the pain of looking at the General.

"It's ours," he says. Keeps his voice low and cool--is the bigger person, the calmer one. Porthos has always known he can't afford to lose his temper around people like this, knows it'll just make them write him off. "If you wanted it, you shouldn't have treated him the way you do."

The General's eyes are flinty. "I wanted a better life for him," he says.

Porthos takes a breath, breathes through the tremor of rage that passes from Aramis to him. "We are his better life."

For an uncomfortably long second, nobody moves.

The General turns his head, then, and looks at Treville. "John. You have Olivier's wishes in writing?"

Wordlessly, Treville hands over a sheet of paper. As the General takes it, gives it a cursory look, Treville glances at Porthos, and there is undeniable pride there. Porthos doesn't let himself smile yet, but he feels better as he looks back at the General.

The General thrusts the paper back at Treville and storms past Porthos and Aramis. He slams the office door behind him, hard enough to rattle Treville's medals in their glass case on the wall.

Nothing more said. No acknowledgment of the two of them, of what they mean to his son. Not even a backward look.

Porthos sways on his feet, and Aramis turns and buries his face in Porthos' neck.

"I'm sorry," Treville says, dropping his head down between his shoulders, braced with his arms on his desk. "God, I'm sorry, I tried to get him to leave before you got here."

"I could kill him," Aramis mutters into Porthos' coat. " _A better life._ I swear to God I could have killed him right here for that."

"I know, babe." Porthos kisses his hair, rubs his arms. He has to laugh, though as he runs over it in his mind. "Fuck, I can't believe you said all that."

"I've been waiting for years," Aramis sighs, and lifts his head. "Thank you, Captain." Treville waves his hand, but Aramis bites his lip and adds, "And I'm sorry for--"

"Don't be," Treville tells him. "You had every right to hurl the worst obscenities at me."

Aramis' smile is faint but present, and Porthos lets himself relax. "Can we--?"

"Of course," Treville says, and motions to the box on his desk.

Porthos hadn't really let himself look at it while the General was there--didn't want to get attached, if the General somehow got away with it. But now he takes a look, at this plain cardboard box about as long and tall as his forearm, carefully inscribed with _De la Fere_ in Sharpie, and he thinks he's going to be sick.

Treville straightens, moves around the desk and clasps a warm hand to Porthos' shoulder. "Take all the time you need. I'll be in the lobby." 

Porthos barely hears the door close behind Treville. He sinks down into one of the two chairs on this side of the desk, and Aramis steps up beside him and opens the box.

He was right, Porthos thinks, feeling slightly detached with the low buzz of pain. Aramis had almost perfectly called it. It's a few changes of clothes, Athos' iPod classic circa 2007 with its massive crack in the screen, his equally battered paperbacks of _The Bell Jar_ and _Master and Commander_ \--

And Athos' dark navy hoodie from the youth center, worn soft with sleeping, fraying at the cuffs, and pilling slightly at the edges.

Porthos lifts it carefully out of the box, as Aramis runs his thumb gently along _The Bell Jar_ 's cracked spine.

He's too worn-out and angry and just fucking sad to care about how pathetic it is, so Porthos buries his face in the neck of the hoodie.

It smells like cardboard, like the books that were resting on top of it, like the standard-issue laundry detergent that washed the clothes underneath it, and tears well up behind his closed eyes. He can't even have _this?_

He presses the fabric harder to his face to blot the tears, hating himself for caring so much and feeling that awful gaping wound in his chest rip itself open again--

And then, just there, catches a hint of Athos' aftershave--the way it smelled at the end of the day, when it had all day to sink into his skin and mix with him. The way he'd smell at night, when he'd pull this hoodie on and crawl between the covers--between Aramis and Porthos, if he was the last one to bed, already grumbling incoherently about _cold_ and _pillow_ and eventually dropping himself on top of one of the two of them, spooning like an octopus.

When Porthos would rest his nose in the crook of Athos' neck, curled up in bed, safe and together at last, this is how Athos would smell.

He lifts his head, because he doesn't want his tears to wash it out, and hugs the hoodie to his chest. With his other hand, he reaches out blindly for Aramis.

"I know." Aramis sits down in Porthos' lap, wraps his arms around him and holds him tightly. "Oh, love, I know."

Aramis' voice is breaking, too, but he strokes Porthos' hair, kisses his forehead, tells him to breathe. Aramis still isn't sleeping well, but he's eating, talking, painting again--working feverishly to get his piece done in time for the show on Christmas Eve. Even better than that, he's stopped moving around the house in a zombie haze, and Porthos is so incredibly grateful.

Because it's been Porthos' turn to let his fear and grief nearly incapacitate him. Athos' video wrecked him. He'd cry for an hour every time Athos' face came to mind, every time he thought about how _Athos left us everything and he wants us to be happy without him, does he have any fucking clue at all_. He's better, a little less immediately weepy, but he doesn't know how he's gonna get through this. He doesn't know how he'll make it through another week, another month, the rest of his _life_ mourning Athos.

Porthos hasn't given up hope that they'll find him, but it gets harder every day.

"I don't know how to do this, Aramis," he gets out around the lump in his throat.

Aramis rocks him back and forth, slowly, and Porthos can feel Aramis' own tears warm against his temple. "Neither do I," he whispers. "But we have to learn, I suppose."

"It's not fair." Porthos knows he sounds like a child. He doesn't care. "We worked so hard for this. Six years isn't enough, I want him _back."_

"It isn't." Aramis' chest hitches against his. "It isn't fair at all."

But there's nothing else he can say, because there's nothing they can do. 

Treville lets them have his office until they compose themselves, and then he buys them dinner and makes them talk about their spring programming at the youth center. It helps, a little, to talk about a future--time has to go on--but.

Porthos had only just gotten used to imagining a future _with_ Athos. He doesn't want to have to imagine one without again.

But he doesn't know what else to do.

 

_December 23, 2014_

After a long and tedious day of Aramis working and Porthos moping around the apartment, Constance and d'Artagnan come over for dinner. Constance brings homemade cookies. D'Artagnan brings takeout and beer, and tells them about when his father died. 

"It doesn't get easier," he says at half past midnight, when they've moved from the table to the dining room floor, and d'Artagnan's rolling a beer bottle between his hands. "I wish I could lie. But it was so fucking sudden when it happened, it just..." He sighs, and Constance, lying on the couch, cards a hand through his long hair. "It just stops surprising you," d'Artagnan says, eventually. "I'd stop waking up and expecting that I'd dreamed all of it. I'd stop getting caught by it three times a day and needing to go hide and cry."

"How old were you?" Aramis murmurs. His head is in Porthos' lap, and his feet are jammed up next to d'Artagnan's. 

"Nineteen." D'Artagnan takes a long sip of his beer. "Drunk driver, hit and run. Guy's been in jail the last four years, but it doesn't help."

Aramis lifts his head from where it's pressed into Porthos' thigh. "You're twenty-three, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan nods, staring glumly into his beer bottle. 

Aramis has had three beers already, and with how he hasn't been eating or sleeping, it's gone straight to his head. "We were twenty-three when we met Athos," he mumbles, slumping back into Porthos' leg. "He didn't know how to smile until he met us."

D'Artagnan laughs, and Porthos shakes his head, takes a sip of his beer. "Nah, he's not kidding."

"Nobody'd loved him until we did," Aramis says--his words slur at the edges, and he wraps his arms around Porthos' leg, rubbing his cheek against Porthos' thigh. "He'd never been happy, always hiding. And we had to hide for seven more years. I always--I always hated it, I wanted to give him so much more than sneaking and hiding."

"You love him." Constance's eyes are bright, her head resting on her folded arm and her free hand in d'Artagnan's hair. "Finally, he could be in love with someone."

"I hope it was enough," Aramis sighs against Porthos' leg.

It's the past tense that sends Porthos into a dark little corner of his mind, that makes him answer in monosyllables for the rest of the night, only half listening to Aramis tell the kids stories about the three of them together. Even Aramis is putting Athos in the past tense now.

And he knows it's because he's drunk, that he can't blame Aramis for that, and maybe it's for the best anyway if they start nudging gently against the idea of Athos being gone, start getting used to it, but.

But.

D'Artagnan and Constance leave and a slightly-more-sober Aramis puts Porthos to bed, and Porthos goes without a fight. 

"I need to finish the painting," Aramis murmurs against Porthos' temple, kisses him, and weaves his way across the hall, leaving Porthos lying in bed. "I'll be back, okay?"

And Porthos nods, curls up and closes his eyes, but. 

But.

_It doesn't get easier. I wish I could lie. It just stops surprising you._

That night he falls asleep hiccuping sobs into Aramis' pillow, not nearly drunk enough to pretend he's fine.

 

_December 24, 2014_

He's dreaming. Porthos knows he's dreaming.

It doesn't make it hurt any less.

He's standing in Arlington, and the grave markers go on forever, one after another after another and from this distance they all look the same, all personal identity gone in the endless sea of white stones on grass. 

Aramis stands in the middle of them all, holding a folded flag and staring down at a grave. Porthos moves towards him--he's not sure if he walks or runs, or if the ground just slips away beneath him until he's standing next to Aramis and the brand new marker.

Aramis' dress uniform is immaculate, crisp blue with insignia gleaming, his Purple Heart lit by the sun, and he's more handsome than Porthos has ever seen him. 

His brown eyes are dead. 

He doesn't look up at Porthos, and he cradles the flag to his chest, holding it like he'd hold Porthos--or the man whose empty casket it covered. And then the grave is there, right there in front of him because Porthos is on his knees at Aramis' feet and he cannot look away from the words etched into the marble--

_OLIVIER ATHOS DE LA FERE_  
 _CPT US ARMY_  
 _PURPLE HEART_  
 _APR 23 1978_  
 _DEC 9 2014_  
 _INSEPARABLE_

Aramis isn't crying. Porthos is. Porthos is on his knees sobbing, screaming--at Aramis at first, because it's breaking him into a thousand pieces to see Aramis so gone, clinging to his legs and shaking him and begging _Aramis, please, please, lover, I need you, I can't do this alone, come back--_

But Aramis doesn't move, doesn't cry, doesn't even look at him--might as well be stone like the grave. Porthos might as well be begging _come back_ of Athos, of his cold stone and his empty grave and his stupid fucking flag--so he does, and he cries for him until he's choking on it.

He's on his knees begging and screaming and sobbing with tears blinding him and graveyard dirt thick in his nose and mouth and _Athos, come back--come back, Athos, please don't be gone, please don't leave, come back, what do we do without you, I love you,_ come back--

"Porthos, come back."

Aramis, calling him, but Aramis is the walking dead behind him, and then Porthos remembers _it's a dream--_

He jerks awake gasping back tears, and he's in their bed, and Aramis is holding him, rocking him steady until the grief and fear have ebbed and Porthos can breathe again.

"I'm here," Aramis murmurs. "I'm here, my love, I have you."

Here. Aramis is here. Aramis isn't lost, he's here. 

Porthos masters himself with steadying, agonizing breaths, and Aramis whispers gentle assurances to him until Porthos can lift his head at last.

Aramis wipes his tears, as he always does, and kisses Porthos' wet eyelashes. "What was it?" he asks gently. 

Porthos' chest hitches. "Arlington."

Aramis sighs and nods, and pulls Porthos close again. "Nothing," he says, his voice humming through his chest where Porthos' head rests, "will ever make us step foot in that cemetery, until Treville's ancient cold heart gives out at the age of a hundred and two."

Porthos stifles a choked laugh against Aramis' t-shirt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Aramis kisses his hair, stroking his fingertips through the curls at the base of Porthos' neck. "Even if Athos doesn't come home, I don't think his parents are going to let us in for the service."

Porthos has to laugh. Gallows humor has always been his and Aramis' specialty. "General'd probably shoot us."

Aramis growls in his throat, and Porthos twists to kiss his neck, stroking a hand over his chest to soothe him.

"Stop that," Aramis says, rubbing briskly at Porthos' shoulders. "I'm supposed to be comforting _you._ I'm so sorry I let you fall asleep alone, I just--the fucking painting."

"'S okay." Porthos nuzzles his face into Aramis' neck. "Did you finish?"

He can hear Aramis' smile. "Yes. Yes, it's done."

"I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, love." Aramis hesitates a moment, then adds, "Do you want to see it? I mean--you can see it tonight, at the gallery, but if you'd rather--in private, first."

Porthos rests his head on Aramis' chest for a few more moments, considering. He still feels like he's stuck in a dreamworld--nothing feels really real. He feels like he could wake up again at any second. Maybe with Athos in his arms. Maybe this whole two weeks has been a dream.

He opens his eyes and looks out the window. It's late morning, and in the apartment building across the way, he can see the wreaths and lights twisting along the balconies and railings.

"It's Christmas Eve, isn't it?" he says quietly.

Aramis swallows hard. "Yes." His voice cracks.

Porthos closes his eyes and sighs, his thoughts drifting back thirteen years to a tiny room in a halfhearted hospital. "Happy anniversary," he murmurs against Aramis' chest.

Aramis' arms come up tight around him, and he lets Aramis crush him close. "Happy anniversary," he whispers.

Grief eats away at Porthos' chest like battery acid. 

"Did you paint Athos?" he asks.

"I couldn't not."

Porthos props himself up on Aramis' chest and twists to look at him. Aramis' eyes gleam with tears, and he reaches helplessly up to cup Porthos' face.

Porthos leans into his touch, kisses his palm, and breathes through it. "I should probably see it now, then," he says, and pushes himself upright.

Aramis holds his hand as they walk to the studio. It's a shy little gesture, like they're high school sweethearts, instead of old lovers who know each other better than breathing. Porthos squeezes his hand, and Aramis leads him into the room, around the circle of empty easels. 

The four canvases are in a square on the floor, like they'd been the night Porthos helped him put them together. But they're no longer blank.

Porthos stares at the swirling dark colors, clouds of grey on purples, blacks, oil-slick messes of memory. He knows, because he knows Aramis, which parts are which: which dark smear of red, streaked with ghost shapes, is that first winter in Afghanistan; which hazy blue-gray fog of buildings is coming back to the States and not knowing who they were anymore; which sole patch of yellow and pale blue is the sun slanting down through the high windows in their bedroom.

All throughout, drawn in lines into the swirls of color, there are sharply-detailed images in high relief--and it surprises Porthos, a little, to see which images etched themselves into Aramis' brain so irrevocably.

A name tag embroidered with "DUVALLON," the stitching on the second L frayed from catching on barbed wire in boot camp. A twisted lump of metal that Porthos never saw from that angle, but knows instantly is the remnants of a Jeep looking out from underneath. A half-empty rifle clip obscured by a hanging rosary, the way it would look if you were wearing the rosary and holding the rifle in your hands, and he reaches over to Aramis to pull him closer even as he stares at the paintings, mesmerized.

Flashes of hands, shoulders flexed in motion, the straight line of a back held tall and the first soft curve of hair growing long over the back of a collar. The crinkle of smile lines at the edge of an eye, and a head slumped exhausted in the crook of an arm--

That's all Athos, and fuck, Porthos remembers almost all of those moments, too. He ducks his head, blinking the tears away, and there's a flash of gold on the canvas.

Wait, what?

"Do you see it?" Aramis asks softly, and Porthos kneels down so he can get a better angle.

He looks back up at Aramis, his mouth open. "How did you do that?"

Aramis smiles at him, hugging his arms to his chest. There's a melancholy kind of pride on his face. "I didn't want it to always be visible. It'll be easier to see in the gallery lighting tonight, but you have to work for it."

Porthos tilts his head back and forth, trying to see all of it. The light's not quite right, though, so he just sits down on the floor of the studio--covered in sawdust and paint as it is--and studies the painting.

Aramis sits down next to him, wriggles his way under Porthos' arm, and rests his head on Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos can't take his eyes off it. This, right here--this is their whole relationship, the entirety of their lives together. He hopes it's obvious to someone who isn't them--he'd feel self-conscious about it being put out in the world, maybe, but no one but the three of them could understand all of this. Like--there, in the bottom left, that one drawing of Athos' hand, half-curled and relaxed. No one else looking at that would know it was the first time Athos felt secure enough to beckon them into bed--it's just a hand, to anyone else. So it's fine.

And even to his untrained eye, it's a beautiful piece. The colors in the abstract bits, the detail etched in for the single flashes of images, and whatever Aramis has done with those gold words, that Porthos can only catch a glimpse of.

"This is amazing, Aramis," he says, his voice hushed like they're already in the gallery, in the museum this thing deserves. "You're amazing. Your mind, your hands--I can't believe this."

"I thought we deserved it," Aramis says. His voice shakes, just a little, and he presses closer to Porthos. "We've--we've never gotten to tell the whole story. I thought it was time."

Porthos tears his eyes away from the painting, at last, and looks at Aramis. Aramis is looking at the painting, running his fingers along the edge of the closest canvas, his face close to tears.

Porthos takes Aramis' face in his hands, turns him away until they're looking at each other. Aramis smiles at him, so unbelievably sad but so very proud, and Porthos kisses him.

One kiss becomes two becomes three, and then Aramis is in his lap and kissing him with a barely-restrained need that sparks in Porthos like a match to gunpowder. Aramis is perfect and brilliant and beautiful, he's amazing, and he's right--they deserve this. 

They spent so goddamn long in hiding. They deserve this. They deserve each other.

They have sex for the first time in two weeks, right here, like this: artlessly, gracelessly, on the floor of Aramis' studio in their rattiest pajamas, next to what Porthos is pretty sure is the most beautiful painting in the world--because it feels like Athos is here with them, because they need to be able to still have this with each other.

It's raw and clumsy and Porthos hits his head on one of the easels twice switching their position. When they fall back onto the floor, Aramis flails his hand down on his still-wet palette and covers Porthos' neck and chest in gold when he grabs for him. They don't care. They barely even notice. All Porthos cares about is Aramis' breathy keening as he gets a hand around both their cocks, about the trembling clutch of Aramis' hands on his hips and Aramis' leg around his waist.

They don't have patience or supplies for anything else, but this is perfect. Their first time together was a hasty hand job in the middle of the night behind their boot camp barracks, with Aramis biting into Porthos' shoulder to stifle his moans and Porthos breathing hard and heavy into Aramis' hair, because they couldn't stand not touching each other anymore. 

This feels like that. And it feels like their first time with Athos--the three of them had made a delivery to an outpost in the middle of nowhere, a long drive out and a long drive back. Porthos pulled over the second there was a sheltered enough spot to have a moment in, and--God. That had been a quick, gasping circle-jerk on the back bed of a truck, with Porthos and Aramis sandwiching Athos between them, all fumbling hands and wet, desperate kisses, and this is like that, too. 

It's living memory, tribute, an in-joke, a sendoff--Porthos doesn't know what.

Aramis cries out when he comes, and Porthos hasn't seen Aramis' body arched and gorgeous in orgasm in so long that it knocks him right over the edge like a sucker punch. 

His head lands between Aramis' neck and and shoulder, and he stays there, breathing hard and smelling paint, sweat, sex. 

Athos would always try to maintain the studio was for Aramis' _art,_ but he loved getting filthy with them. He'd always let Aramis convince him that his _art_ involved glorious naked sweaty bodies. 

Would. Loved. _Will. Loves._

...Would.

Loved.

Fuck, he's crying on Aramis' collarbone. 

Aramis' hands turn gentle, stroking over his back and shoulders, his lips pressing dry kisses to the shell of Porthos' ear, his neck, whatever's in reach, and Porthos just lies there, accepts it, and lets tears slide down his nose.

Sometime between last night and this morning, Porthos thinks he lost hope.

 _I'm so sorry, Athos,_ he whispers in his head, sends the thought out to wherever his poor love is now. _I tried, love, I'm sorry, forgive me._

_It takes too much, I just can't do it anymore._

He doesn't say a word, of course. He lets Aramis pull him upright and into the shower, mechanically washes sweat from Aramis' hair and come from his stomach, lets Aramis wash gold from his own torso and leave faint flecks of glitter smeared in his skin. They take turns caring for each other, and Porthos does his very best to be present. The gallery show's going to be hard for Aramis, having to talk about such a personal piece over and over to perfect strangers, and Porthos wants him to be at a hundred percent when they go. 

So he does his very best to stay as engaged with Aramis as he can, feeding him and laughing at his jokes and touching him as much as possible. He doesn't touch his phone; doesn't let anything break the sensation of the two of them being the only two people in the world. He tries to push down the feelings of _traitor traitor traitor_ , box them up and lock them away, at least for tonight. He can be hopeless and broken tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he can start coming to terms with believing that Athos isn't gonna come back. Tonight, he needs to be as sure as breathing that they'll see him again. For Aramis' sake, if not his own.

Constance and d'Artagnan turn up at four-thirty to take them to the gallery. It's already dark, and Aramis and Porthos are both in full suits, paintings all wrapped up and ready to go. Constance has her sister's car for the occasion, because for fuck's sake they are not taking four priceless paintings on the subway. 

Constance is beautiful, in a sparkly black cocktail dress. D'Artagnan is clearly smitten all over again with her. The kid looks good, too, in a button-down and blazer, and Aramis nervously fusses over his hair for a few moments before proclaiming him adequate. Aramis' nervous energy has been climbing the past few hours, and as they're putting their coats on, Porthos pulls him close and drops a kiss to his forehead. Constance and d'Artagnan are used to their handsiness, and the two of them each take a canvas and excuse themselves down to the car.

"It's gonna be great," Porthos tells him, stroking Aramis' temples. "Babe, you're a fucking genius. They're going to love you."

"I'm not worried for me," Aramis says--lies, Porthos knows instantly but lets him have it--and flashes a half-smile. "I just--everyone's worked so hard on their pieces, on organizing this. I want it to go well."

"I know." Porthos kisses him again. "It's gonna be an amazing show."

It feels good to say something that he believes wholeheartedly, without any effort. So for good measure, he adds, "And I love you," to watch Aramis' face light up, and feel the words settle in his chest like a talisman.

They still have this. 

\- - -

The gallery is incredible. It's a big, sprawling place, and once he's left Aramis deep in conversation with the worker who's helping him hang them, Porthos wanders around and sees what else is already here. 

It's good. It's all really good, actually. Even the Navy vets turned out something decent. And it's all really different, which makes him feel better about the whole thing. No vet has the same experience. Hell, Porthos and Aramis were together for basically their entire tours of duty, and _their_ experiences weren't even the same. Porthos hopes--he's not super optimistic, but he _hopes_ \--that the rich, powerful visitors tonight come away with at least that.

He meets a few people, shakes some hands and snaps some salutes, until Aramis darts into view with an important look on his face. He motions silently to Porthos, and Porthos excuses himself from small talk with an Air Force couple. 

"It's up," Aramis says, grinning nervously. "Would you come see?"

Porthos rolls his eyes at him and puts an arm around Aramis as they walk. "Like I'm seriously not gonna."

Aramis laughs--and then they turn the corner, and Porthos forgets to breathe.

With the gallery lights shining down from above, the colors are bolder even than they'd been in the studio. The bright red of blood is a vivid splash now--and the blue he'd used for the flashes of Athos' eyes glows. 

Porthos takes a step closer, and then--

The gold seems to fade in before his eyes, the words almost hovering above the painting. They're written out in lines over the whole thing, not in Aramis' usual slanting hand, but something rounder, more precise--as close as Aramis can come to something taught carefully in a school and refined even more carefully by parents and tutors and nannies who cared too much for appearances.

And for the first time, Porthos reads: _Stay with me._

_Stay with me. Here, right here, I need you to stay here. I know. I know it's too much. I know you're going to see them like that for the rest of your life--but it'll get easier. I promise you. I promise it will get easier._

_You survived. I promise, you're alive. You're alive, and so am I, and so is Porthos, and we're all here. We're here. Stay with me, please. I need you to be here, too. We've lost so much today, we can't lose you._

_Do you know how important you are? How much your smile means, to all of us? To me? Do you know how much hope you've given me, just being you, just being with him, despite all this?_

_Please don't lose your smile. Don't ever lose your smile. Come back. Stay here. Stay with me._

Porthos reads it, and rereads it, over and over again, seeing it in Athos' hand and hearing it in Athos' voice, remembering the low murmur he could just barely hear under the sound of engines and guns. No words, just the sound of Athos' voice, the first time Porthos heard it low and gentle like that.

He fills the words into his memory of that day, now: Athos rocking Aramis back and forth, cradling him close and heedless of the blood soaking his fatigues, whispering this to Aramis next to the twisted wreck of the Jeep.

He stares at the painting until his eyes blur, until he has to turn away and pull Aramis into his arms--so he can stop staring at the words Aramis wrote in gold, the way Porthos is sure they're golden in Aramis' memory, preserved perfectly for all these years.

Aramis holds him. He puts both his arms around Porthos and lets him cry, until the storm surge of grief has ebbed enough for Porthos to draw back, for Aramis to dry his tears and gently kiss his cheek.

"How did you get his handwriting so close?" Porthos says finally, when he can talk again. He desperately needs to talk about something that is not the way his heart is trying to claw itself out of his chest right now.

"I thought about it like painting instead of writing." Aramis presses light kisses to both of Porthos' cheeks, and his face is so unbelievably tender as he takes Porthos' face in his hands and strokes gentle fingertips over his skin. His smile tugs up, wry and lopsided. "Are you all right?"

Porthos swallows and nods, looking back at it. At this angle, he can only see half the words, the slant of the light throwing off the first part until all he can see is _Come back._

"Porthos," Aramis says slowly, and when he looks back, Aramis' eyes are luminous and soft. "I'm sorry for springing this on you like this, I just--I wanted you to know."

Even though he's on the edge of crying again, Porthos still has the words. "It never really mattered to me to know. That was--that was between the two of you."

"I know." Aramis' lips twist in a sad and sweet little smile. "But. If Athos isn't here anymore, you're the only other person who was there, and..." Aramis sighs and rests his forehead on Porthos' chest. "That was the worst day of my life, but it was the day the three of us started to come together. I don't want to be the only one who remembers it all."

Porthos nods, holds Aramis closer against his chest. They stand locked together like that until d'Artagnan's gentle throat-clearing pulls them apart.

"Sorry," he apologizes when they turn to look at him. "They're gonna open the doors, I thought you two should know."

"Thank you," Aramis says briskly, wiping at his face and pushing a hand through his hair. 

He makes it worse, and Porthos clicks his tongue and takes his face in hand, holding him still so Porthos can make him look at least halfway military. "You are always such a fucking mess."

"Always, without you," Aramis says, and kisses Porthos' palm. "You don't have to stay next to me tonight--actually, I'd appreciate it if you'd mingle a little? Donors, other vets, anyone who needs a little charming with your lovely smile. I'll text if I'm dying without you."

Porthos grins, feeling better. It helps to fall back into their old routine, the teasing and joking and casual flirting that still gives him just as many butterflies as it did over a decade ago. 

His phone, when he takes it out to check that it'll be fine for Aramis to reach him, is totally dead.

Aramis flashes him an unimpressed look. "Porthos."

"You remember to charge a damn phone when you've been crying for three days straight," Porthos mutters, irritated and fond in equal measure. "I'm gonna go track down a charger, are you okay?"

Aramis' smile is gleaming and gorgeous. "I'm a professional, Porthos."

"Yeah, sure." Porthos gives him a quick peck on the lips and goes to hunt down Constance. 

Constance has her usual purse, luckily, and Porthos endures her gentle teasing in exchange for the charger she keeps on her at all times (being assistant director of a youth center is a phone-intensive job, after all). There's an outlet in the office, which the gallery director assures him he can use, no trouble, and by the way thanks for helping Aramis get back to equilibrium over the past few days, he's really a wonderful advocate for the veterans community and the arts scene here.

Porthos knows, but he loves hearing Aramis praised by total strangers, all the same. It's all he hears for the next hour or so, as he drifts around and smiles and shakes hands. Aramis is amazing, Aramis does such important work, his painting is _phenomenal_ and have he and Porthos known each other long?

 _Yeah, he is, I'm really proud of him, it's maybe the best painting I've ever seen in my life, and actually we're partners, we've been together for thirteen years._ And sometimes he'll add _it's our anniversary, actually,_ just to add even more emphasis for the ones who look like more appalled than pleasantly surprised.

"You're doing great," Aramis murmurs to him at one point, when Porthos drifts back to his little space to find Aramis silently watching a pair of young women in Marine uniforms study his painting. The two women are holding hands, there are tears in their eyes, and Porthos' chest tightens painfully.

For a second, he envies them. That they can be out together, that they don't have to hide--but then he's glad, so fiercely glad for them, glad that they fought for years so no one else has to hide like they did.

He puts an arm around Aramis and kisses his hair, and Aramis sidles closer to him. 

When the two women come over to Aramis eventually, after congratulating him, they ask about who the other man is. Their eyes are gentle, sympathetic, and Porthos can't quite believe they can talk about this publicly, let alone have some kind of semblance of a queer military community. 

He kisses Aramis' hair again in a silent farewell, leaves Aramis with these lovely two Marines (he'll find out later their names are Fleur and Therese, and that Aramis gave them his card, when he meets them at the youth center's next volunteering day--but again, later), and goes to check his phone.

The office is cool and deserted, but Porthos prefers the crowd to solitude tonight, and he's planning on getting right back out there once he's made sure the battery's fine--

Porthos becomes instantly grateful he's alone when he has four missed calls from Treville over as many hours (how fucking long was his phone dead, anyway?), and a single text from two hours ago that says [Call ASAP.]

Oh. Oh, no.

No.

He's glad he's alone because collapsing into the nearest office chair and shaking uncontrollably is not something he wants to do in front of anyone but Aramis, and Aramis is perfectly happy right now, and Porthos isn't gonna wreck tonight for him. Aramis has worked on this night for months and Aramis is a hero and if this is bad news, Porthos is going to keep it in until they're home.

He can do this. He can.

His legs don't let him stand up for a good five minutes, and the second they do, the walls are pressing in on him and he has to get outside. 

It's not better outside. He didn't bring his coat, it's too fucking cold, and he ducks into the shadow behind the gallery's front steps and tries to get a grip. 

But he's not ready for this conversation.

He's not ready to let Athos go.

He's not ready for it to be _real_ , to be the one who's going to have to tell Aramis, to have to keep it inside for the rest of the night and not burst into tears when he gets a glimpse of the fucking painting for the rest of _ever._

He's not ready. He's not. 

His heart's beating too fast in his chest, faster than it's ever been when he wasn't under fire, but this feels like that. It's the same dread, the same fear settled into his bones that someone is going to be gone when he turns around, the same sense of impending loss that's going to crush him when it comes.

It's not fair, it's too soon, he's _not ready for this._

He leans against the brick wall of the gallery, hiding himself out of the reach of the lights on the steps, hunches down and curls in on himself, trying not to break down in tears. 

They signed up for this with the chance of losing each other. They always knew it could happen. It just wasn't supposed to happen once they were home.

He can't do this. He can't pick up this phone in his numb fucking hand and call Treville and make it real.

Is this his fault? Did he make it happen when he gave up, was it his loss of faith? It's fucking stupid to think he has that kind of control, but it feels like a punishment, it feels like the universe saying _if you'd believed in him, you'd get him back, but you don't deserve him._

He loves Athos too much to even think that, but it was just too much to keep living with that kind of hope, it takes too much and he needs to take care of Aramis, he needs to try and take care of himself--but maybe that was being too selfish. He loves Athos. Athos always believed in him, and Porthos gave up. Porthos failed. 

He failed him, so maybe he deserves to lose him like this, but Aramis doesn't. Aramis doesn't deserve this. Aramis loves perfectly, wholeheartedly. Aramis doesn't deserve this pain. It isn't _fair._

He's not ready for it to be over yet.

As Porthos gasps for air and tries not to cry and tries to work up the courage to pick up the fucking phone, a car pulls up halfway down the gallery's stretch of sidewalk. Porthos shrinks back into the shadow, because it's dark enough that maybe they won't see him and he just cannot fucking handle people right now--

And then he realizes it's Treville's car.

Oh. Oh, fuck. In person is not better for this conversation.

Treville gets out, and Porthos can't see his face, doesn't want to, doesn't want to see the grief that's there.

Treville walks around the front of the car, and Porthos' heart is skating, skittering in his chest, he isn't ready for this, he's fucking scared.

But Treville goes around to the passenger door, and opens it, and for half a wild second Porthos is sure it's the general, that they've all come to tell him _he's gone, we're sorry, it's over._

He can't see who's getting out, the car door blocks it, but Porthos sees a metal thing and fatigues under the car door, and he doesn't understand. He can hear Treville's voice, familiar in its tone, but he can't make out the words--can't make out anything, really, he's in too much of a clouded, terrified haze of grief and fear.

Treville closes the door, and.

And.

Porthos doesn't. Can't.

No.

That can't be Athos.

Athos isn't--he's not--

But. Curly hair that's a little too long, beard roughly trimmed, in fatigues that don't really fit and he's leaning on a crutch and his arm is in a sling and there are a few shrapnel grazes on his face that Porthos can see from where he's still leaning against the wall, and _he doesn't understand_ , how can he be here, how can he be _here?_

Athos.

Athos, Athos, Athos.

Athos, he's alive, he's home, he's. Athos.

He looks uncertain, he's leaning against the car and Treville's helping him with the sling and the cane and what happened, how did he get hurt, is whoever did it still alive so Porthos can fucking _destroy_ them, what happened, will Porthos' arms make it better or will it be a long slow climb like it was with Aramis? Did they just find him, did they bring him straight home, has he--is he--is he all right? Is he going to be all right?

Oh, for fuck's-- _why is he still standing there like a jackass,_ why isn't he--

Porthos takes a step out into the light, and Treville looks up sharply.

His face relaxes, he touches Athos' arm, and Athos starts. Looks up.

Then he sees Porthos.

Athos' face floods with color Porthos can see in the dark and his eyes go wide and he hasn't looked at Porthos like that since Porthos kissed him in an alleyway in Bagram and he has to catch himself on the car, staring at Porthos, and then Porthos' body finally listens to him and _moves._

He has absolutely no words until he's about ten feet away and Athos' eyes are _blue_ and without even thinking about it he demands "Tell me where you're hurt so I don't break you when I--"

"Leg, arm, don't care, _Porthos_ \--"

 _"Good,"_ and then he's there and he throws his arms around Athos and Athos is real, alive, whole, _here._

Athos' free arm wraps around him and _squeezes_ and he buries his face in Porthos' neck and they are holding each other like the world's gonna stop spinning and fling them both into space. Porthos is shivering, Athos is _shaking_ , his whole body shuddering as he takes deep, shaky gasps of air, and Porthos holds him through it. He will maybe never stop holding Athos. Not anymore. Not ever again.

"Athos." His voice is broken and raw and it makes Athos tremble in his arms. "How--?"

"They pulled us out yesterday." Athos takes a few deep breaths and steadies himself. "Special Forces. We had injuries, they--they put us right on a jet, I got back stateside this morning. Treville heard, came, pitched a fit until they let him take me home."

Porthos' laugh is more like a sob, and he holds Athos even tighter. "God. Athos. _Athos."_

"I'm sorry," Athos whispers. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone, I shouldn't have left."

Porthos draws back enough to kiss him, and Athos just collapses against him, his one hand fisting in the back of Porthos' collar, and holds him in a hard and scorching kiss.

"Don't apologize," Porthos manages to say when they break apart. He's crying, he can't even figure out what he's feeling, he knows he's happier than he's ever been in his life but the _guilt_ is also churning up and boiling out of his chest. "I, I'm the one who should--"

"Pick up his phone, yes," Athos says, letting Porthos take his whole body weight and _clinging_ to him in a way Athos never does, "but please, don't cry, Porthos, it's fine, really--"

"No, that's not why--" Porthos stops, swallows, breathes. Athos is here. He's alive. 

Fuck, Porthos is the worst boyfriend in the world.

"I didn't think you were coming back," he says finally. Treville has mercifully drifted away, is intently reading something on his phone half a block down, and there's no one but Athos to hear Porthos' biggest shame. 

"I didn't think I was either," Athos says, and there's a shadow in his blue eyes, and Porthos will chase that shadow away if it takes his entire fucking life. 

Athos deserves that. Athos deserves to know that Porthos didn't--that Porthos wasn't--

"Babe, I gave up," he whispers, and he just cannot stop fucking crying. "I couldn't keep losing you all over again, every day."

Athos' eyes are glazed with tears, too, and he cups Porthos' cheek with his hand, draws him close and rests their foreheads together. "Do you want me to be angry?" he says softly. "Do you want me to berate you for keeping your spirits up so they could be dashed over and over again? Do you want me to tell you that you should have held on to a little flame of hope so it could burn you alive? You took care of yourself. You took care of Aramis. That was what I wanted more than anything."

Porthos' tears are freezing on his face but he doesn't care, he can't stop. "I know. I know you said--but, Athos, I feel like I failed you."

"Don't you ever say that again," Athos says, his voice cracking, and he's still all fire and passion and God, he's amazing, he's here, he's alive. "If you had to let me go so you could take care of you both, do you really think I'd be angry? As long as--" His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, his fingertips digging into Porthos' skin. "As long as you still loved me, I don't care, Porthos."

It doesn't matter that it's thirty fucking degrees outside and Porthos can't feel his fingers.

He's warmer than he's ever been in his life.

He kisses Athos again, holds Athos in his arms, feels him breathe, tastes his tears, and loves him, loves him more than he can ever say.

"I have always," he says, his lips brushing Athos' and their noses touching, "loved you. I will always love you. Nothing could ever make me stop, Athos, I love you so much."

Athos smiles at him, slow-breaking and beautiful, and Porthos has never felt love the way he feels it right now. "Then we're fine," Athos says, his heart in his eyes and his voice, and Porthos kisses him again, again, again.

They only pull apart when Porthos' body forcibly reminds him that it's getting below thirty degrees and he's in a) a blazer and b) a blazer. He shivers so violently it nearly jars Athos off him--Athos blinks, looks down, and realizes Porthos isn't in a coat, just his suit shirt and jacket.

Athos' face changes from fond to exasperated in less than half a second, and fuck, Porthos missed him. "How long have you been out here?"

"Uh." Porthos has no idea. Athos rolls his eyes, leaning into him. 

"I love you," Athos says, and firmly pushes him towards the door. 

Treville joins them halfway there. Porthos wordlessly clasps his hand. They'll talk later, the two of them; right now, Porthos is focusing on the way Athos is limping, his crutch tucked under his working arm and his teeth gritted in a mix of irritation and pain. 

Porthos badly contains his protective instincts. "Babe, did you get yourself shot again?"

"Shrapnel and burns from when they snatched us," Athos says with a grimace. "They didn't treat me for a few days, I've got ten different kinds of meds and bandages and things from the base in the car." They get three more steps, and he adds, "And I also did get shot."

_"Athos."_

"Grazed. It's fine."

"He shouldn't be walking," Treville says, cutting right across his posturing, and Athos gives him a hard look. "Bed rest for two weeks, antibiotics, physical therapy," Treville goes on, and Porthos' hand on Athos' back moves to curl around him, holding him close as he tries to fight the rumble of protective anger that wants to burst out of him.

Treville flashes Porthos a smile. "But he wouldn't go home without coming here."

"I said," Athos says, his voice tightly controlled, "that I would come see Aramis' show."

Porthos and Treville share a glance, but they both understand. Promises to be kept are the most important thing, coming back from something like this.

They're going to have a lot to talk about--later. Right now, Athos needs to see Aramis' painting.

Treville goes up ahead while Porthos waits on Athos. Athos takes the stairs himself, because while he's the love of Porthos' life, he is also a stubborn son of a bitch, and Porthos figures he wouldn't want to change that, anyway.

Still. "If you slip and crack your head open thirty fucking feet from Aramis he is never gonna forgive you."

"I'm already at the top," Athos says pointedly, but his cheeks are flushed in a different way from the cold, and Porthos reminds himself that Athos is the worst patient in the world--

But even if he'll never admit it, he loves being taken care of.

At the top of the steps, before they open the door, Porthos wraps his arms around Athos and pulls him close again. "I love you," he says, and kisses him again. "I'm so glad you're back, I missed you so much."

Athos smiles at him. He's completely exhausted, Porthos can tell--there's the love in his eyes keeping him alight, and that's all. 

"We're gonna go inside and say hi," Porthos says, smoothing Athos' hair back from his face. "And then Aramis and me are gonna take you home, and there's gonna be a bath, and food, and then we're going to bed and you're gonna be in the middle and we're staying there for days."

He's not expecting Athos' eyes to fill with tears. Athos isn't normally the crier (Porthos himself is, actually). 

But it's been a long two weeks.

He holds Athos until he stops clinging to Porthos' arms--fuck the cold, it doesn't matter, Athos is home--and they're both dry-eyed.

Then they go inside.

Athos sticks close to Porthos, staying safe in his shelter, but he's holding himself up, as straight and tall as ever. Aside from the visible injuries, you'd never know anything had happened to him. 

Porthos is so fucking proud of him.

The gallery's crowded by now. People stand in groups all around, looking at pieces or standing and talking, and Porthos leads Athos carefully toward the dividing wall. 

"It's so full," Athos says quietly, and he sounds proud, too. 

"It's all him," Porthos says, feeling his smile tug. "He's been amazing, Athos."

"He always is," Athos murmurs, and the longing in his voice makes Porthos want to kiss him again.

Then they come around the wall, and Athos stops dead. 

Porthos puts an arm around his shoulders, and he feels all Athos' breath leave his body in a rush. 

Aramis is standing with his painting, half-turned away from them, and he's talking animatedly to a small group of people, Constance and d'Artagnan close nearby keeping an eye on him. His eyes are alight, his hands slicing the air in front of him, and the people around him nod--caught up in his fire, just like Porthos and Athos have been for years.

"I was so worried about him," Athos whispers to Porthos. "I'm so glad he's all right."

Porthos kisses his hair again, his eyes on Aramis. 

Then Constance sees them.

Her hands fly to her mouth and she stifles a shriek--d'Artagnan looks over, and his jaw drops--

Aramis looks over his shoulder. 

For the first time in months, the three of them are the only thing in the world.

Aramis stares at them. 

Athos lets out another harsh breath.

Aramis blinks. Twice, three times, four--making sure he's seeing what he's seeing. His eyebrows draw together, his lips parting like he's asking a question.

He doesn't believe it.

And then his face tightens, his jaw clenching as he blinks again, furiously, and he starts across the floor towards them. He doesn't push people out of the way--he doesn't have to, anyone who's standing there moves out of the way at the half-wild look on his face.

Athos sways forward as Aramis approaches, because how could he not, when have they ever been able to stop their fucking magnetic pull toward each other, and Aramis is nearly running across the floor to him, the desperate need to touch, to make it _real_ plain in every line of his body.

Porthos propels Athos forward with a hand on the small of his back and takes his crutch with the other.

And Athos takes a half-step forward, and he and Aramis collide.

They stumble with Aramis' momentum and Athos' unsteadiness, but Porthos is there, and he braces them both. That's Porthos' job--to hold them up while they hold each other. 

Aramis is panting like he's run a mile to meet them here, his hands moving over Athos' body like he doesn't know where to touch first. Athos clings to him with his one arm, pressing his face into Aramis' neck and twisting close like he wants to climb inside Aramis and never pull away.

Aramis doesn't say a word, but Porthos watches his face twist with emotions--disbelief, joy, terror that it isn't going to be real. 

But then Athos lets out a single shuddering exhale, and Aramis' face goes gentle and tender and his eyes fill with tears. He buries his face in Athos' hair, squeezing his eyes shut and rocking him back and forth.

"Athos," Aramis whispers, like a prayer. "Oh, Athos."

"I'm sorry I'm late," Athos says. His voice is raw, but he holds on hard to Aramis. "I know I promised."

Aramis lets out a half-hysterical laugh and pulls back to run his hands through Athos' hair, pushing it away from his face, his dark eyes tracing over every feature. "Oh, my love," he says helplessly, and Porthos knows he sees every cut and scrape, he knows Aramis hasn't missed the leg or the sling, but that's all surface.

What matters is Athos' eyes, Athos' smile, Athos mostly whole and alive and _home._

With a soft sound, Aramis pulls Athos closer and kisses him.

The last tension bleeds from Athos' body. He goes boneless in Aramis' arms, trusting Aramis to hold him up, to take his weight. 

Aramis does all that and more. Aramis' right hand slides into Athos' hair, cradling his head, stroking his thumb along his cheekbone, and his left arm dips low to pull Athos' body closer, to hold him securely against Aramis' warmth.

Aramis holds him, kisses him fiercely but with so much gentleness, and Porthos' free hand slides to Aramis' shoulder. He really needs to be touching them both right now. 

Aramis' eyes blink slowly open as he draws back from Athos, and he looks up at Porthos. His eyes are wide, deep and dark, and he smiles like he can't believe it, can't help it. 

Porthos wraps his arms around them both, Aramis slides one arm to hold Porthos, too, and Athos lets out a breath and leans into them both. 

Finally. Finally, finally, Porthos is holding them both again. They're all here. They're together. 

They've got each other. 

"Oh, Christ," Athos says, muffled against their chests, and Porthos realizes, very suddenly, that the entire gallery's applauding. 

_Oh, Christ_ is right. 

His whole body flushes hot as he lifts his head, glances around, and yep, every single vaguely military person in this place is clapping for them. Constance, d'Artagnan, and all the other softies are clapping, too. Very, very few people are dry-eyed. 

Porthos is shit at taking charge of moments like these, flushed with embarrassed pride as he is. "Uh, Aramis?" 

Aramis laughs and straightens. He kisses Athos again, then draws slightly back from the two of them so he can be seen (he does not, not at all, move his hand from Athos' neck). He holds up a hand, and their unintentional audience quiets. 

Aramis is beaming, glowing like the sun with his happiness, and he laughs out loud as he lets his arm slide to Athos' shoulders. "To everyone I told that the third person in my painting couldn't be here tonight--it seems he's proven me wrong yet again." 

Everyone laughs, the spell seems to break, and their friends surge forward to welcome Athos home. 

Porthos and Aramis do not let go of him, and while other people get to say hello, only Constance and d'Artagnan get to actually touch him, hug him. Constance kisses his cheek, her fingers tight on his forearm, and when she tells him that she doesn't care how banged-up he is, she expects him at the New Year's party, Athos nods and smiles, his eyes so very grateful that Porthos has to order himself not to cry again. D'Artagnan's eyes are mistier than Constance's, and Athos gives the kid an extra-hard squeeze before he draws back. 

"I hear you've stolen my job," Athos tells him, and d'Artagnan goes bright red. 

"I--well, someone had to cover the classes but of course you can have it b--" 

"He's teasing you," Porthos laughs. Athos smirks, and Porthos' heart flies to hear Athos being playful. 

D'Artagnan laughs sheepishly, and Aramis leans in to press another kiss to Athos' temple. He stays there, traces Athos' skin with his nose, and he looks so content, so happy. 

Athos looks at him, his eyelids heavy and his smile small and warm, and Aramis brushes a kiss over his lips. Athos presses up into him, and his eyes go soft. "Can I see it?" Athos asks. 

Aramis stares blankly at him. Aramis, Porthos is sure, has completely forgotten where they are. Then it clicks, and Aramis flushes dark. "Yes, of course," he says, and squeezes Athos' shoulders. 

Porthos hands Athos back his crutch--he knows Athos is going to want to do this himself--and Aramis gives him a searching look. He doesn't ask (yet); his eyes just fill with love and tender worry, and he brushes the back of his fingers along Athos' jawline. Then he and Porthos lead Athos to the alcove where Aramis' painting hangs. 

"Gotten any offers for it yet?" Porthos asks lightly as they walk over.

"Many," Aramis says. "But it's going up in the bedroom."

The few people still lingering around the painting drift off as the three of them approach, and they're alone as they can be in this gallery. They stop in front of the painting, and Porthos casts a careful look at Athos.

Athos looks at Aramis' painting for a long time. As his eyes move back and forth, Porthos watches their shine deepen, watches the tears well up and threaten to spill over. Athos doesn't dare blink; he won't let them stream over his cheeks.

It's all there. Everything they are together, everything they've been. Aramis put all his love, all his hope for the future, all they've been and all they want to have, on those canvases.

It all started with Athos' words, that day they pulled Aramis out from under that Jeep.

Athos stares at them, written out in gold, and he reaches over with his free hand to lace his fingers in Aramis'. "I didn't think," he says, his voice rough with unshed tears, "that you heard all that."

Aramis smiles softly, looking up at the painting. "Every word."

"I'm glad you said it," Porthos says. They both look at him, and Porthos swallows down the lump in his throat.

They wouldn't have all come together if Athos hadn't said what he did. They never would have tried, they never would have had this.

Porthos could have had a good life without them, he's sure--but he prefers the one he's got.

He swallows, reaches up to wipe his own tears, and smiles at them. "I'm so glad to have you both."

Aramis smiles back, sunlight warming him through, and Athos' eyes glow behind his tears, and God, Porthos loves them more than anything in this world.

From the looks on their faces, they know. And they feel the same.

Aramis' smile sweetens, softens, and he reaches over to take Porthos' hand, too. "Home?"

"But it's your night," Athos says softly, looking back up at the painting.

"It's my _anniversary_ ," Aramis corrects him. "I want to go home and spend it with the people I love."

Athos' eyes fall shut in grateful acceptance, and he leans over and rests his head on Aramis' shoulder. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Aramis kisses his hair, strokes his back. "I love you," he says simply. It is that simple, for him. It always has been.

Athos sighs against Aramis' chest, and Porthos barely hears his voice. "I love you both. So much."

Porthos steps closer and puts his arms around the two of them. "Love you," he echoes, kissing Athos' hair, brushing a kiss over Aramis' lips, and they share a long, warm look.

Athos sighs out again, sounding easy at last, and when he looks up, Porthos sees all of the past few weeks etched into his face. The exhaustion, the fear, the tension and pain and misery--but they aren't in his eyes. Not anymore.

He'll be okay. They've got him.

They've got time.

"Home," Porthos says, and leads them both to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite believe I've actually finished something long like this. I learned so much from this piece (never think "oh, yeah, I can knock this idea out in a oneshot," for starters; "I can finish this by New Year's Eve, totally," as she posts on nearly Valentine's Day, for seconds). I love these boys. I hope I may get to spend more time with them someday. As always, [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone not coming from an American context, if you aren't familiar with the US military's policy of ["don't ask, don't tell,"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don%27t_ask,_don%27t_tell) the short version is that it barred LGBT Americans from serving in the military--but if you were already there, people weren't allowed to ask about your sexuality or harass you (legally), and of course you wouldn't tell anybody. It was in force from February 1994 to September 2011.


End file.
